


When We are Together

by missbluebonnet



Series: The Lovely Moons [10]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adorable Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), Blind Character, Din Djarin has a good day, Din Djarin has dad reflexes, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, M/M, Mandalorian Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24006532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbluebonnet/pseuds/missbluebonnet
Summary: The Mandalorian brings you and the children to the Tribe.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizla, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Lovely Moons [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638400
Comments: 455
Kudos: 703





	1. When We are Together

**Author's Note:**

> Happy May the Fourth!
> 
> So I have taken liberties with some Mandalorian culture. Not a whole lot, as I did quite a bit of research, but since we don't know a lot about the Tribe itself, I filled in some gaps while trying to stay as true to canon as I...felt like.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting! I have been sick the entire weekend, so letting me know what you think is seriously something I'm looking forward to!

Nevarro is a desolate rock of ash and burnished horizon, and you feel like clutching all three children closer to you once the Razor Crest is safely landed. The Mandalorian chose to set the ship down behind a gulch, something that would have normally terrified you for your lack of vision, but his logic, as always, is sound and planned. The Tribe lives in a subterranean enclave, and there exists more than one way to enter underground.

If the Mandalorian senses your tension, he says nothing about it. The little ones, however, not only share your worries but fully confide in you about them. Corde pulls at the ends of her hair, chewing at her bottom lip until it's raw. You wrap her in your old cloak, folding it around her shoulders so her little arms aren’t susceptible to the cold. Their clothes, that you had already washed various times, were falling apart when you’d met them. Now, softened and fresh smelling, they were threadbare at best. You didn’t have enough fabric for handkerchiefs, let alone something they could wear, and it was another worry you put on the shelf in your mind.

The baby is the one most affected by your mood. His ears are perpetually drooped like wilting petals, his large, owlish eyes gazing up at you dolefully. When you hold him, bouncing on the balls of your feet as you pace, he fidgets and fusses, and you have to remember to take deep breaths. He eventually feels the settling of your heartbeat, begrudgingly quieting against your shoulder, and by the time the Mandalorian shows himself, dropping down from the ladder, you feel more tired than if you’d ran the whole way to Nevarro.

“How will they offload your cargo?” you ask, turning your mind to something other than what you’re about to do. He still has yet to collect payment from the jobs he took the last few weeks, including the Ivalice brothers, and you knew he was ready to empty the hull. The children had not noticed what hung from the rafters, but it was only a matter of time. You weren’t sure if you would be able to explain that to them.

The Mandalorian opens the hatch, glancing your way as he moves around the hull.

“I’m going to park the ship closer to town when you’re safe at the covert.”

Your ears ring, and you imagine that your face drains of all color. “Y-You’re leaving us there? Alone?”

His visor tilts in your direction, and you think you can hear him frowning. “You’ll be safe. And you won’t be alone.” 

“I-”

“Will you come back?” Corde asks, leaning against your leg. Somehow, the soft uncertainty in her voice captures everything you feel, and you know she speaks for all four of you when you turn your faces up to the bounty hunter.

He pauses packing the bag you were to take with you, his visor tilting between each child and yourself before finally settling on the little girl. “Of course I will. Did I not swear it?” he asks, walking up to you and handing you the bag. You take it, and he exchanges it wordlessly for the baby in your arms.

If you’re jealous at the grateful sigh the infant gives, you hide it well.

Corde brushes her soft soled shoe against the hull, looking down at his boots. “Y-Yeah, but-”

It occurs to you then, watching Corde scratch at the gauze over her still-healing palms, that not only are they nervous like you, but perhaps they are nervous  _ because _ of you. Or, they are nervous because you all come from the same shriveled stock of the Empire’s exploits, having been taken, sold, abandoned, chewed up, and spit out all over again. The notion of meeting someone, anyone, who weighs the rights of keeping you sets you on edge.

The heavy, sickening knowledge that they might reject-or worse, disdain you is unbearable.

But would it be the end of your clan? Even if you did fall short in their eyes, it would not tear you away from these sweet faces or that gleaming helmet. 

“Enough,” you breathe, kneeling down and drawing both small children close to you by their shoulders. You try your best to meet their gaze with your own pale eyes, forcing a smile past the trembling in your lips. “We are a clan. Nothing that happens today will change that.”

Venka stares at you solemnly before stepping close and pressing his face into your shoulder, leaning against you. Corde starts to bite her lip again, and you cup her chin with a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be together the whole time. And nothing will happen to you while we’re there.”

“But he’ll be gone,” Corde whispers, as if she is scared the Mandalorian will hear her fear.

He’s tucked the child into his pram and lifts the girl up under her arms. She weighs nothing to him, you think as you stand, laying both hands comfortingly on Venka’s shoulders. 

“Only a few hours,” the Mandalorian says, descending the ramp with the pram following close behind. Venka takes your hand, leading you after them without any prelude or question, ever your little leaning post. “And then I’ll return, and you can ask me more of your questions.”

You see, then, that within the gulch’s ledge, there is a carved out cave. Man-made, you suspect, and you swallow your wariness and find yourself leading Venka into the dark behind the Mandalorian. He taps something on his helmet, and a startlingly bright torch lights the path up. 

“Will you teach us those words you always use?” Corde asks. From the way her voice is slightly muffled, you know she’s laid her head on his shoulder while he walks. You tighten your hand in Venka’s, breathing steadily.

“I told you that I would.” You listen to the crunch of his boots over the rocky terrain before he adds, “And while I’m gone, perhaps  _ Mesh’la _ will tell you the story of how she took down a gunslinger.”

Both children gasp with intrigue and excitement, and you breathe a sigh of exasperation-and amusement. How did he do that? Swing you from utter sweetness to benign vexation? You’re smiling in the dark, even as Venka tugs on your hand in eagerness.

“You took down a gunslinger?” Corde breathes, as if she’s never seen anything quite like you.

“The Mandalorian exaggerates,” you tell her with a cool, even tone.

“She stared down his barrel and called him  _ weak _ .” 

“I did no such thing!” you huff, slapping his arm with the back of your hand. “I told him he was some hunter, because he couldn’t find what was right in front of him.”

Corde snickers, her little voice ricocheting off the cave walls, and Venka claps his hands, hopping up and down beside you. 

“Ah, see, my memory’s slipping.”

“Kuiil says it’s because you’re old,” Corde tells him promptly, and you can’t help the snort that escapes you when the baby floating in the pram giggles.

“ _ Osi’kyr _ !” he grunts, tossing the girl in his arms so she squeals. “Don’t make me feed you all to the lizards.”

You cover your mouth to laugh, not paying attention to anything other than the happy sound of the little girl and baby giggling at the mighty warrior’s sudden antics, and your shoe catches on a particularly jagged rock. In the darkness of the cave, vertigo sweeps your feet out from under you, and you throw your hands out in a desperate attempt to grab at the wall. Instead, you clip your chin on a rockface, and the heels of your palms scrape over the uneven terrain. 

“Ay!”

There’s a rustle in the darkness, and suddenly you’re being lifted back upward. Blood pools in your mouth, and you lean away, spitting it out with a retching sound, the dirty metallic taste sticking to the back of your throat. There’s nothing but hurried shuffling, a grunt, and a sudden shadow hanging over you. You hear Venka gasp beside you.

“Let me see,” the Mandalorian murmurs, cupping your chin with his gloved fingers. You wince at the bright light shining in your face from his helmet, and he angles your jaw so he can see the abrasion quickly blooming a dark crimson on your skin. 

“Are you okay?” Corde whispers from behind his shoulder, her little voice trembling with worry. 

The Mandalorian tosses his pack down and opens it, retrieving a canteen and unscrewing the cap. He passes it to you, and you swig a bit before spitting it out to cleanse your mouth, then quickly take another drink. “I’m fine,” you mutter, your entire jaw aching from the way your teeth clacked together, nearly through your tongue. You force a smile in the dim light for her and the boy, letting the Mandalorian take the canteen from you. He’s searching for something else in his pack when you feel a tiny, hesitant pressure on your hand.

The small green child has clambered out of his pram, huffing with exertion to climb into your lap. You watch him quizzically, able to make out the shadows of his oversized ears against the flashlight on the Mandalorian’s helmet. He reaches out a baby’s hand upward, and you don’t realize what’s happening until the pain in your jaw begins to subside, the ache turning into a throb, turning into a slight soreness. 

And then, it’s gone completely, and the child promptly passes out in your lap.

“ _ Din! _ ” 

The Mandalorian thrusts an arm out, spinning on his knee in the dirt, and faces you to find the little green baby sleeping deeply, and your face and hands clean of cuts. 

“What happened!” He barks, leaning forward to hover over the child before his visor takes a double glance at your face. You blink in the harshness of the light, tears pearling in your eyes and shaking your head.

“I-I don’t know, he just-”

“He fixed her,” Corde whispers, awe-struck, and her large, dark eyes gaze sweetly at the baby in your arms. 

The Mandalorian looks between you and the child you hold, touching your face tenderly before laying his hand over the baby’s stomach. “He-He’ll be fine,” he whispers, his voice strangled with worry. He waves one of his hands to pull the pram closer by his vambrace. 

You had felt him sleep so soundly once before, laying upon your chest, and your lip trembles in realization.

“He healed me before, too...didn’t he?”

A solemn nod from the Mandalorian’s visor makes your heart squeeze, and you lean down, pressing your lips to the baby’s brow. You move slowly from there, tucking the child back into his bed and covering him with the blanket that was once his father’s cloak. The bounty hunter closes the shutters, laying a gloved hand over the top as if he could comfort the child just by being near. You have no doubt the possibility. 

He helps you to your feet, your hands shaking as they take his arm for support. He says nothing, but you feel the brush of his glove over your fingers. There is no laughing now, and Corde and Venka hold hands just behind you as they walk.

The trek feels like it’s miles long. Perhaps it is. It’s hard to know how much time passes in the dark, and you listen to the quiet pace of the children’s footsteps, the steady breathing coming from the modulated helmet beside you. It gets colder the further you venture beneath the earth, and you’re beginning to feel claustrophobic.

The Mandalorian suddenly stops, and you tighten your hold on his arm, your other hand reaching out to steady yourself on Venka’s shoulder. The boy steps close to you as the bounty hunter approaches what seems to be a dead end, and you swallow hard, heart sinking. You don’t know if you can bear going back the entire way you came. You are beginning to lose your sense of direction with the darkness pressing in so close.

When a horrid, rusty creak shrieks off the walls, you and the children all cover your ears, wincing at the echos reverberating off the cave’s rocks. The Mandalorian steps back as soon as it stops, and you blink in the darkness. With his helmet’s torch, you see it’s not a cavern anymore, but a tunnel.

“Come on,” he rumbles, and Corde is the first to practically skip through, followed by Venka, and you with the pram at your side. The bounty hunter takes your hand when you hold it out, helping you over the uneven path into the tunnel before slamming the heavy metal door shut behind you. The tunnel is man-made of smooth stone, arched at the top, and cool with a draft that has your hair floating gently about your shoulders. 

“W-Where are we?” you whisper. The echos sound as if hundreds of souls live in the walls, and it humbles you in a way one might experience walking into a temple. Something sacred lives past the rocks, under the earth, and you’re afraid to disturb it.

“This is the enclave of the tribe,” the Mandalorian murmurs, though his deep baritone carries loud enough that both children walking along either side of you can hear. For several moments, all you can hear is the sound of your footsteps on the dusty path of the tunnel until he continues, “Not many use this route to get here, but it’s the only way to get inside without going into town. We are few, here, and we do not venture above ground more than one at a time.”

“Why?” Corde asks, jumping closer to the bounty hunter when a lizard skitters by her ankle. He drapes his cloak over her, keeping her close to his side.

“It is safer when we are together.” His boots strike the ground with a quiet reverence, and you lean your weight more onto his arm, resting both hands on his elbow. “This is the way.”

The farther you walk, you start to see how the passageway forks off, and two Mandalorians lean on opposite sides of the tunnel near the dissection. You jerk with surprise when they stand up, facing your small group. Holding out a gloved hand in amity, the bounty hunter at your side rasps,  _ “Vi've olaror chaaj'yc. Liser vi spirba?” _

A catch of the light off of the Mandalorian’s fingers draws your eyes, and you see something small swinging from a cord on his fingers.

The pendant. You hadn’t even seen him remove it from the child’s neck.

The two guards seem to relax at the sight, and they bow their heads, stepping out of the way. “ _ Olarom, verde, _ ” one intones, and you feel compelled to bow your head in return. For a reason you can’t name, you don’t think they would take you seriously if you curtsied as you were taught in the Moff’s household.

As your Mandalorian leads you past them, you whisper a quiet, “Thank you” before hurrying Venka along beside you. The tunnel begins to open wider, branching out through differing paths, and you can slowly hear the sounds of life, as if the shadows of the rocks have sprung out, fully formed. Figures in various sets of Mandalorian armor pass through the tunnels on either side, and you feel your eyes drinking up every shape and color you could make out. Some are new, some are shined, some are red or green or grey, and still others look as if they’ve seen a battle beyond measure. Several times, the Mandalorian bows his head in greeting or deference to a fellow warrior, and they seem to make way for you-for all of you.

But for all the vastness of the tunnels, they feel ghostly, empty, and you can’t contain the shiver that makes its way up your back.

Stepping through a threshold that opens wider into an alcove, your sight lights up with hues of blue and gold from a smelter in the center of a dome shaped room. Upon the wall, high and proud hangs the familiar face of the bones of the Mythosaur that the Mandalorian had once shown you, and before the smith stands a most impressive sight.

Venka and Corde step behind your skirts, peeking from around your legs, and you don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until the Mandalorian turns to gaze back at you. Half in shadow, half lit by the silvery hue of fire, his visor is unreadable, stoic and taciturn, but he does not bid you forward. Instead, he unshoulders his rifle, setting it beside you to lean against the wall before moving to sit before a low table.

Perhaps, even an altar.

The fellow Mandalorian, gold helmed and flanked with a fur to ward off the chill, steps from around the smelter, inclining their head toward the man now kneeling. You wish you could back away, feeling both a foreign intruder and somehow a thief, witnessing something that was not yours to see.

“You have made a clan.” A female, by the voice, observes you and the children huddling beside your legs. The pram floats silently beside the bounty hunter, and he says nothing in response. The woman stands, moving slowly with care towards you. You hesitate, trying to resist the urge to take a step back, but before you can, she takes a knee and holds out a gloved hand. “Do not be afraid,” she tells the two children, her voice sage and gentle.

Corde peeks around the willowy blue of your skirt, and slowly puts her hand out. Venka only follows her when he sees there is no danger, both of them resting child’s hands in the large leather glove softened by work. The woman lays her other hand atop both of theirs, and she inclines her visor. “You are most welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Corde whispers, and the female warrior bows her head, her horns catching the light. 

“ _ Val haa'taylir echoy’la _ ,” she says, turning to the Mandalorian. Her voice is the authority, the loftiness of a mother and a priestess, and something within you wants to please her, to have her find favor in you. 

The air around the Mandalorian seems to spark with the same eagerness you feel. 

“We have come a long way to get here,” he says, by way of an explanation. His fingers flex over his knees, and you wonder if he’s nervous in her presence. “To assure the safety of the foundlings. I-I could not have done it alone.”

“No,” she says, and you’re acutely aware when her visor trains on you. “You could not.” She turns away, dragging gloved fingers over the pristine smelter’s edge before tilting her helmet just over her shoulder. “You of course are welcome here, as is your place and right. Your clan is our tribe. This is the way.”

The Mandalorian stands slowly, bowing his head. “This is the way.”

Something within your stomach settles, your heart closing off from a racing gallop to a canter. 

Corde opens her mouth, and you just know whatever she has to ask is for another place and time, so you take her hand and put a finger to your lips, sharing a small smile with her. The bounty hunter retrieves his rifle, dropping his hand to your lower back to lead you out of the enclave. You spare a glance over your shoulder only to find the watchful eye of the female warrior inclining her visor toward you.

“That’s it?” you whisper, your uncertainty evident upon your face.

The Mandalorian is smiling. You can hear it. “That’s it.”

You’re led back down the labyrinth of tunnels to a long passage with heavy tapestries marking each door. When the Mandalorian parts one near the end of the passage, brushing the fabric to the side, you take Venka’s hand and Corde’s in your other and step inside. 

It is a modest room made of smooth stone. Half the floor is covered in thick, plush pillows, cushions, and furs, in a lofty pallet, and against the far wall hangs a brilliant tapestry of shimmering black fabric on which a mythosaur skull is embroidered with crimson thread. You stand in the center, blinking in the dim light that’s only given off by a humble glowing lantern. 

The Mandalorian moves about before lighting more lanterns that are covered in a thin layer of dust, and it fills the room with a dim golden glow. He kneels down in the corner where there is a heavy iron grate, lifting it from the floor. You begin unfastening your cloak from Corde’s shoulders, and you can hear him striking stones together. 

Corde and Venka run to flank him on either side, curiously watching. You hear the snap of a spark come to life, and the familiar catch of a flame against kindling.

“What is that?” Corde asks, hunched down and peering into the grate.

“Watch,” he says patiently, shifting onto his knees to show the children. “The last person to use these quarters left wood for us. When you burn it, and set these stones over the grate, it heats them and keeps us warm.”

Venka picks up one of the rocks and begins arranging them over the grate, quickly followed by his sister. You turn to the pram, gently opening the shutters to look upon the sleeping infant within. His ears are drooped low on either side of his little body, and you feel your eyes begin to sting as you watch him sleep. Two warm hands, one holding gloves, wrap around your waist, and you’re pulled gently back into the firm beskar clad chest.

“He’s not hurt,” he rumbles quietly. “Not physically.”

Your breath trembles when you try to inhale, and you lay your hands over his vambraces. “I can’t...can’t believe he did that for me,” you whisper, a tear slipping over your cheek. “I’m supposed to protect him, not...not the other way around.” 

The Mandalorian rests the chin of his helmet lightly on your shoulder, watching the sleeping baby with you. “I felt the same way,” he confesses, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. “With...with the mudhorn.” 

“If anything were to happen to him because of me, I-”

“ _ K’uur _ ,” he whispers quickly, his hands moving fast to turn you and envelope you in an embrace. Tears fall faster now, and you press your face into his shoulder, smothering your spastic breaths as he holds you tightly. “Don’t think that way.”

“Is she okay?” Corde asks, sounding so fearful that it breaks your heart that much more. You bury your face against the thick fabric covering his throat, arms wrapping around his middle and clutching up his back. Your breathing shudders in your chest as if you’re the child needing to be comforted, and your face flushes in shame.

The Mandalorian shifts you beneath his arm and walks you outside the quarters, letting the curtain fall heavily behind you before leaning your back against the wall. Gingerly, he takes your wrists and lifts your arms above your head, holding them there.

“Breathe,  _ Cyare _ .”

You do as he says, feeling your lungs open up with the gentle stretch. Looking up at his helmet in the dim light of the passageway, you feel a steel assurance take hold of you, and you curl your fingers into fists. 

“I need-I need you to promise me something,” you whisper, your voice losing its tremble. He slowly lets go of your wrists, and you drop your hands by your sides. You don’t know how someone so reticent can reveal their feelings at will, but in that moment you can feel his hesitancy. “Please.”

“If...if it’s in my power,” he murmurs, his hands flexing at his sides.

You brace yourself against the wall and take a deep breath. “If something ever happens, you must not let the child’s safety be called into question-”

“It won’t.” His voice is harsh, rigid, unyielding. 

“I mean it,” you whisper, folding your hands over your stomach. “No matter the cost.”

The Mandalorian says nothing, his helmet trained on you with such an intensity you have to drop your gaze to his boots. You don’t think you can stomach the idea of the little one giving up parts of himself for your wellbeing. That’s...that’s your job, and it’s unfair that he expended himself for you. Twice. It makes you want to tear your hair out at the roots.

His hands come up to cup your wrists, so delicately that you feel you might break in his hold. He steps closer, gently pressing you against the wall until cool beskar brushes your forehead. “It won’t come to that,” he rumbles, the vocoder shy of crackling with static. 

It was not the agreement you were hoping to hear, but you have no wish to argue the point with him. Not now, when you’re safe in such a sacred place. In fact, you feel a deep pull, a yearning to brush your lips against his again, a strange sensation you have never experienced before. You doubt, standing in the passage that housed the tribe’s warriors, that it is a good idea, so you settle for the gentle pressure of his helmet leaning against the crown of your head.

“When will you leave? How long will you be gone?” you ask softly, allowing him to keep your wrists caged, holding them against his chest plate.

“Not tonight,” he sighs, and you wonder what changed his mind. “Tomorrow. A few hours, maybe.”

You close your eyes, your energy deflating. While your body feels the need to curl up and sleep after the long and dizzying journey through the caves, your mind wanders restlessly. It leaves you feeling frustrated, wanting something to occupy yourself with, and you’re about to voice your concern to the man in beskar when he suddenly straightens up.

“I have something for you.” 

You blink at his sudden change in tempo, watching as he drops your hands and disappears into your shared quarters once again. You’re quick to follow at his heels, squeaking when you thump into his back to find he stopped so suddenly.

“What are you two doing?” 

Corde and Venka make a show of looking anywhere but at the Mandalorian, too close to the door not to have clearly been eavesdropping. Corde rocks back and forth on her heels, and Venka signs quickly.

“The baby’s awake?” the Mandalorian asks, and you gasp, hurrying around his nearly immovable figure to shuffle to the pram still floating near the heated rocks.

When you open the shutters, the child blinks his large, inky eyes up at you sleepily, and as you draw near, he whimpers and lifts his tiny hands in a plea to be held. You don’t hesitate to take him quickly into your arms, cradling him against your shoulder, and he sighs sweetly, nuzzling against your neck as his ears droop in gratefulness. 

“Stop listening at doors,” the Mandalorian tells the two siblings, his voice holding no bite as he ushers them to the low table across from the cushions. Clearly it was to eat at, because you watch, swaying the child you hold, as he lights another lantern to illuminate the table. He heaves a sigh as he moves around the space, gathering his rucksack and plopping it upon the table before kneeling in front of the two children. “Here. Practice your Basic.”

Paper and pencils, you find, are put before them. The rudimentary tools, in place of holopads or digital screens, makes you grin, because it seems very fitting for such a warrior of archaic teachings. You wonder if it’s the same pencils you’d purchased at the market. It’s the way you had learned, of course, and you come to sit beside the little boy as he hooks his tongue studiously over the corner of his mouth and begins to spell out letters.

“This-um-” 

Your attention is drawn back to the Mandalorian, who holds something wrapped in a cloth. You blink, tilting your head to try and figure out what it is that he’s holding, but nothing is given away to answer for his sudden hesitancy. He shifts so he’s kneeling and sets the heavy object upon the table in front of you, drawing his hands back and flexing them over the curaisse covering his legs. 

“I got it on Cantonica,” he finally mutters, looking away from you. “I didn’t...I’m sorry it’s not...more.”

Puzzled and curious, you shift the baby in your arm so he’s sitting up and facing the table with you. He’s slow to be woken, but his eyes follow your hand as you peel back the carefully folded cloth that covers the gift. When your hand brushes over hardened leather, you feel it, and you gasp, eyes widening and mouth falling open.

“H-How did you-? You…”

It doesn’t matter that tears begin swimming in your eyes, because when you draw your hand over the cover of the book, you can read the braille with your fingers.  _ The University of Sanbra Guide to Intelligent Life _ , the small nodules and nicks read, and when you bite your lip, your tears slide down the apples of your cheeks. 

The Mandalorian grows perfectly nervous under your silence, shifting to draw one knee up to his chest before thinking better and drumming his fingers on his thigh. “I-I’m sorry it’s not something more interesting. They...they didn’t have much.” 

“You looked for this?” you whisper, turning your gaze on him, and if he was nervous before, he seems to melt into a case of shyness and steel. “It must...it must have cost so much.”

He clears his throat, uncomfortable beneath your watery gaze. When he doesn’t reply to your declaration, you draw the leather string that seals the book away, opening the cover quickly in your eagerness. 

“You said you read...before,” he mutters, flexing his hands in a quick succession. You draw your hands over the braille, close to falling apart at how expertly cared for the pages are. Not only are ink and paper books rare, but braille is near impossible to find. The majority of tomes that are kept tend to be dry subjects, since most of the Empire had not bothered to invest in translating anything into a format that wasn’t holobooks. 

“I can’t believe you remember that,” you whisper, short of breath in the wake of such a gift.

The Mandalorian tilts his helmet towards you, and when you meet his visor with your own pale eyes, he clears his throat again. “Well...I did accuse you of trying to poison the child.”

The last book you were able to read was in the study of the Moff’s wife, and it was on different species of flora and fauna found in the inner rim. It had been a source of wonder and intrigue for you to curl up in her window and read the pages until you’d practically memorized them. Now, thinking back on the cheek you’d thrown at him on Quanera, spouting facts about flower petals and stems, you feel your heart swelling with such a powerful emotion that you’re not sure what to do with yourself.

So, you do what comes naturally, setting the child down and throwing your arms around the bounty hunter’s neck. Unsuspecting of your outburst, the Mandalorian falls over with a muted grunt, and all three children begin giggling as you squeeze his neck tightly, babbling your thanks in watery, broken happiness. The armored warrior flails to try and sit up with you nearly pinning him down, and the more he struggles, the louder the children begin to laugh. 

He finally lets his head rest back on the ground, content with you half laying on top of him as you begin pressing fluttering kisses to his helmet, and oh, more than anything, you want to kiss him  _ so _ .


	2. In For a Credit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fellow Mandalorians teach you how to handle weapons.

The Tribe is a working society, and you quickly become fascinated in the opportunity to occupy yourself. You are no stranger to work, and the constant inner need to be doing something of value, to be useful, to earn your way is so ingrained that it borders restlessness. The morning when the Mandalorian says he’ll be taking his collected bounties to Greef Karga in town, you look up from the book where your fingers pause over the raised indentations of braille, tilting your head. Corde and Venka follow your eyes upward, nibbling at their food, and watching him curiously.

“What should we do while you are away?”

He pauses his adjusting of his vambrace, glancing between all of you, four pairs of expectant eyes, and he explains that there exists many skills that the Tribe hones together as a collective, from fighting to healing to child rearing. 

Watching the small green infant play with his stuffed bantha toy perched on the warrior’s lap, you straighten your back and lay your hands on your knees. As a servant and slave, you have performed a variety of tasks. You can clean, cook, mend, garden, and farm. As a handmaid, you’ve developed skills that were fine tuned for a lady of an older age. You’d taken care of her hair and nails, you’d seen to her correspondence, fetched her tea, and kept her company. Having taken care of children before, you knew your strength as a caretaker is hard to rival, blinking at the three children surrounding you.

But this was a chance to learn something  _ new _ .

A decision settles within you, and you hold your chin level.

“I would...like to learn about weaponry.” 

The Mandalorian’s visor trains on you for so long, you think perhaps you have said something wrong. You begin to wonder how you can explain away the whim when he stands suddenly, placing the baby in his pram. He clicks a button on his vambrace to program it’s tracking before holding a hand out to help you to your feet. Venka and Corde shove the remainder of their breakfast in their mouths to follow behind you both as he leads you through the passages of the enclave. The child floats between you and the siblings, large inky eyes blinking curiously.

“Will we get to learn, too?” Corde asks, her eagerness palpable.

“No. But there are foundlings here that you should find. They can teach you games I’m too old for,” the Mandalorian grunts, and she gasps, rushing around to stop in front of you both. You feel his fingers tighten over yours when you both halt suddenly.

“Can we go find them now?”

You hesitate, the idea of the two children disappearing somewhere in the tunnels making you uneasy, but the Mandalorian tilts his visor down at her, taking her measure. “So long as you stay together, and do not leave the covert.” Corde’s eyes light up, but before she can bolt away as if on an invisible speeder bike, the Mandalorian grabs the back of her collar, keeping her in place. He squats down in front of her, still slightly taller in stature, and you hold your breath as you watch them. “I mean it,  _ ad’ika _ ,” he repeats, his voice pitching deeper in warning as he looks down at her. “Promise me.”

Venka is quick to promise, holding a hand over his heart with a bowed chin as if taking an oath for life, and Corde nods so fast her hair comes loose from her braid. “We promise.”

“Go.”

You watch their small shapes disappear from your line of sight, the slap of the shoes you’d sewn them echoing off down the rocky walls of the passageway.  _ They will not be alone _ , you remind yourself, forcing down the nerves twisting your stomach. If the beskar clad warrior at your side trusts his people to watch over them, you will, too. The Mandalorian watches them until they’re out of sight, nearly jumping out of his armor when you slip your hand in the curve of his elbow. 

“And where will you be sending me?” you ask softly, walking alongside him when he seems to remember his feet. He lays his other gloved hand atop your fingers, and you think he might be smiling.

“You said you wanted to learn about weaponry.” 

You never see him without a weapon, his blaster ever present against his hip or the ominous rifle slung across his back like a saint’s marker. It is not a leap in judgment to assume protection is important to him beyond his profession, and knowing what you know now, you realize the level of trust he holds for you when he had shown you the weapon’s locker aboard the Razor Crest. 

But the memory of how helpless you’d felt holding the blaster and aiming at Toro Calican had not left you. The blurry recollections of Cantonica leave you sick, and you silently wonder, at night when you are alone with your thoughts, if things could have been different had you not been such a foolish thing. That is something Mandalorians are not-and now, you are determined to change it. 

“I would like to not be so afraid of weapons,” you finally manage in a quiet tone, resting both hands on his arm now and leaning your weight into him. He inclines his head in your direction. “I think fear is disrespectful for something that can save your life.”

He moves his hand, the warm leather covering your fingers that rest on his forearm, and there is a feeling he seems to radiate that washes over you. The backward set of his shoulders, a near defiant tilt of his chin, and you’re surprised when he comes to a brief stop in the middle of the passage. The child coos from his pram, blinking owlishly between you both and perking his ears upward. 

The Mandalorian turns you toward him with a gentle, crooked finger beneath your chin. You expect him to say something, his thumb grazing your chin in such a slow, delicate sweep. Your eyes feel heavy as his other fingers uncurl against the warm flesh of your neck, sliding to cup the side of your throat beneath the thick veil of your hair. You keep your eyes upon the shine of his visor as he leans his beskar covering to whisper over your brow, and the complete tenderness in such careful, quiet movements makes your heart speed up. You think he must feel it, your pulse fluttering beneath his fingers where he’d once sunk his teeth out of passion born from fear and admiration, and you swallow hard at the memory. 

For a single, still moment, you think he may take your hand and drag you back to your quarters.

The sound of approaching boots has the Mandalorian calmly stepping back from you, and whatever spell had blanketed you both is broken. Feeling flushed, you drop your head away as a fellow Mandalorian passes by both of you, nodding towards your bounty hunter in silent greeting. You draw some hair behind your ear, looking back at the child who grins up with all of his teeth at you as if privy to a joke you hadn’t heard.

The tunnels that interconnect are not twisting or turning as much as you expect. They are large, wide and windy, and you try to remember your way back the way you’d come to begin memorizing the layout. You give up just before the Mandalorian stops in front of a short flight of steps hewn into the rock. He wordlessly offers his hand to you, and in the distance you hear two male voices bantering back and forth. 

The armory is large, spanning the same length as the Razor Crest at least, and it is filled with every kind of weapon of all shapes and sizes. Blasters, rifles, blades, and contraptions you have never seen before. There are lights ensconced upon the surface of the rock walls that allow your vision more opportunity to open to your surroundings, and you follow behind the Mandalorian as he comes to stop near a large bench littered with blaster parts, tools, oil, and dirty rags.

Across from you are two Mandalorians, and they stand upon your entrance. The slightly shorter warrior wears armor the color of moss with so many silver nicks and dents that you wonder if he hadn’t been thrown down the side of a cliff face. The taller, broader of the two is covered nearly head to toe in dark grey armor that’s shined to a shimmering gleam. You smile uncertainly, feeling shy as you stand just behind the Mandalorian.

Well.  _ Your _ Mandalorian.

“ _ Su cuy’gar _ ,” greets the green armored warrior, his thick accent making you tilt your head. “Didn’t think we’d see you here again.” 

“That’s because you don’t think much,” shot the grey armored Mandalorian, putting his hand out to grasp the forearm of the man beside you, shaking firmly in welcome. His voice is much smoother, deeper, and you can’t help but feel intimidated a bit by the magnetic presence when he turns his reflective visor upon you. “ _ Tion’cuy _ ?”

The Mandalorian rests his hand upon the small of your back, ushering you to stand properly beside him as he gives your name. “This is Briinx,” he tells you, nodding to the Mandalorian in green before gesturing with his hand to the other. “And Rhalaz. They are valued warriors, firearm instructors for foundlings, and the covert’s mechanics.”

“‘Mechanic’ makes it sound like we’d tinker with any ship that flies in, Djarin. We modify weapons that you can’t quite get through strictly legal means,” Briinx says, twirling a vibroblade between his gloved fingers. “I think we’re artists.”

“No, no,” Rhalaz shakes a hand, sounding completely put off. “Weapons sing. We are musicians, if anything.” 

“Then we’d be conductors-”

“Look,” the Mandalorian sighs loudly, interrupting what you assume is going to turn into a conversation he’d rather not be a part of. “You have someone who wants to learn about weaponry. Think you can stay focused long enough to teach her something?”

“I’m offended you think otherwise,” Briinx says suddenly, dropping the blade on the workbench without ceremony. You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “We might bicker like an old married couple-”

“You  _ are _ a married couple,” the Mandalorian growls.

“-but we always deliver,” Rhalaz quips, tilting his helmet towards you before settling his visor on the bounty hunter at your side, almost predatorily. “We’d be happy to teach her, but...well, why aren’t you teaching her? _Cuyir dar_ _gar riduur_?”

Your eyebrows lift curiously when the Mandalorian goes completely still beside you, and you suspect that he stops breathing. The three warriors stare each other down for such a long, tense moment that you’re afraid to even blink. You can’t begin to guess what the implication is of what was spoken, but when the Mandalorian’s hand curls against your back, you feel his unease.

“ _ Sa jate sa _ ,” he finally mutters, staring steadfastly forward. His voice is full of annoyance, bristling and testy. “I have business today, and she wants to learn. Any more questions?”

Briinx puts two hands up in surrender, and Rhalaz’s helmet shakes with laughter.

The Mandalorian turns you both away from the other two warriors, resting one gloved hand on the middle of your back and inclining his helmet down towards you. “I’ll be back by the evening to collect you.” 

A small furrow forms between your brows, and you tilt your head. “I’m sure I can find the children if I just ask-”

“No!” You jump at his sudden whisper, blinking rapidly when he almost shuffles nervously. “No, I’ll...I’ll come find you.” 

You frown after him, his shadow disappearing up the short flight of steps with a snap of his cloak. When you turn around, the other two Mandalorians survey you with their arms crossed across their chests. _ In for a credit, in for a pound, _ you think. You take a deep breath, folding your hands in front of you and stepping forward. You haven’t held many conversations with people since you left the cantina outside of the Mandalorian or the children, and it feels very odd.

“Ever held a blaster before?” Briinx asks, picking up one of the hand guns from the workbench that shines beneath the light. It looks freshly oiled and cleaned, and you swallow at how dark and foreboding it seems in his gloved hand.

“Yes,” you murmur, thinking of Toro Calican’s blurry form lying dead on the floor of the Razor Crest’s hull. “And I’ve shot one, too.”

“Well you’re already ahead of most of our students,” Rhalaz chuckles, seeming to sense your discomfort. His tall frame comes around the bench, and he pulls out a stool for you to sit on, patting it. 

As daunting as the idea of learning weaponry seems, the two men are accommodating teachers with very different styles. Briinx is more hands on, insisting you hold every weapon, part, or tool you learn about while Rhalaz gives you in-depth explanations for what the parts of a blaster do, how a flash grenade detonates, and even the benefits of using blaster energy versus slug bolts. 

“Blasters don’t have the same kickback as a slugthrower,” Rhalaz says, bringing down a long rifle that you immediately recognize. Your face must betray you, because he chuckles and sets the firearm in your hands, braced across your lap. “Where do you think Djarin got his rifle from?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” you admit, feeling the weight of the amban sniper weapon. The familiar pronged end feels awkward and precarious as you heave the gun upward, testing the weight.

“One of my favorites,” Briinx chuffs from across the bench, coming around to show you how to brace the stock pad against your shoulder. He fixes your hands, tilting your head up from hunching over, and correcting your overall posture with a sharp eye.

“Disruptors are one of the most dangerous kinds of weapons. They can short circuit an entire space station if you know where to aim,” Rhalaz tells you sagely, watching his husband adjust your stance.

You swallow hard, wishing you could put the rifle down and far away from you. “What would you need such a thing for?”

“For short circuiting a space station,” Briinx huffs as if the notion is obvious. 

“This model and its modifications use more energy than your average blaster, so it...well-”

“It disintegrates people,” Briinx deadpans, moving your hand that cups the stock beneath the gun further out to give your grip balance. 

You gape helplessly. “D-Disintegrates?”

“Or electrocutes, if you don’t want to kill the target,” Rhalaz sighs, seeming annoyed with the other Mandalorian. “That’s what the prongs are for.”

“It sounds like these should be banned,” you mumble as Briinx comes behind you to straighten your shoulders once more. You shudder to think what the Mandalorian would need such a weapon for.

“Oh, they were,” he chirps, tilting your head up again. “Now, see this here? It’s the scope. Allows a sniper to see his target from miles away.” His glove floats over the eyepiece and turns the dial. “It’s got heat sensors, too. Maybe Djarin will take you out sometime so you can see for yourself.”

You frown curiously, leaning forward to press your eye to the scope. It’s not nearly as blurry as you expect, and when he flips the dial again, your vision lights up with various shades of color. Rhalaz walks to the far end of the room into the darkened corner of the armory, and you see his heat signature fill the screen. He waves, fluttering his fingers so you can see him.

Excitement tingles along the back of your neck at actually being able to see what has been described to you, and you can’t help the small smile that curves your lips. “Oh.”

“We don’t give these to just anyone, mind you,” Briinx stipulates, patting the crown of your hair as you sit back. “Djarin only got one because he’s the best sharpshooter in the covert.”

“Really?” 

It occurs to you that you know very little about the Mandalorian’s skills as a warrior. You had seen him move with precision and even witnessed his deadly reflexes, but you’d never actually seen him fight. The few times he’d killed, you had not been conscious enough to witness it.

“Can’t fight hand to hand worth a damn, but we all have our helms to wear,” Rhalaz sighs dramatically, earning a grin from you as Briinx takes the rifle from you and opens the barrel with a satisfying crack. “Alas, if you do learn to shoot, it should be from him.” 

“I...I shot someone once,” you confess, and the armory goes very quiet. You don’t know if it’s from your confession itself or the tone of regret you can’t keep out of your voice. You take a deep breath, your eyes watching as Briinx’s gloves cradle the rifle like you might cradle the child in the crook of your arm. “It...he was going to kill us.”

A firm hand on your shoulder draws your eyes up to the shimmering stormy grey helmet, and Rhalaz tilts his visor down to try and meet your gaze. “There is honor in defending yourself,  _ vod’ika _ . And the ones you love.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you whisper, curling your hands in your lap. Your heart begins to pound, face flushing with a cold sweat appearing behind your ears. The words must sound so foreign to seasoned warriors as the ones flanking you, and your quiet confession sinks your shoulders. How could you claim to be the companion of a Mandalorian when you couldn’t even protect yourself?

Surprisingly, Briinx is the one to allay your fears.

“No one wants to truly hurt another,” he says with his unique accent, his green helmet tilted conspiratorially towards you. “And if they do, they are the ones you should keep in your line of sight.” 

Rhalaz nods once, grim and somber, and you frown gently. Had you not been able to fire the blaster at Toro Calican, would the Mandalorian have been able to gain the upper hand? Would the child still be safe? The two questions chill you, chasing the flush from your face, and you decide that you would never be in the position to ask such things again.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you murmur, conviction making the words sound stronger than what you truly feel, but you straighten your back and breathe deeply. “But...I want to protect my child. The children. M-My clan.”

Rhalaz thumps his fist once on the bench, and Briinx chuckles happily, “ _ Mandokarla! _ ”

“ _ That _ we can help with.”

When the Mandalorian descends the steps that evening, you are sitting on the workbench, legs crossed at your ankles as you work to put a WESTAR-34 blaster pistol back together after taking it apart. Briinx stands with his back against the wall while Rhalaz holds several throwing knives in one hand, balancing one in his other. a

“Don’t forget to slot the spring in. You don’t want to jam it, because that will wear it down.” 

_ Thud _ .

“Your aim is getting worse, old man,” Briinx chides, a teasing note in his modulated voice. “I’m supposed to be able to deflect it, and you have to at least try to hit me.”

The Mandalorian clears his throat, and you look up with a bright smile in greeting, swinging your ankles from your perch.

“Djarin! Welcome back. We did half your job for you,” Briinx declares just as a knife thunks against the side of his helmet, skittering across the floor. “She’ll make a deadly  _ ver’verd  _ yet.” 

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the Mandalorian deadpans, inching around behind Rhalaz as he gears up to throw another knife at his husband. You smile wide as the Mandalorian approaches you, and one hand comes to rest on the bench beside your thigh, the other resting on his belt. He leans his weight on one foot, visor tilting toward you. “Having fun?”

“I like this one,” you declare to him, your hands deftly slotting the slide over the barrel and finishing the job. The blaster gleams nearly platinum beneath the light, weighing it in your carbon smudged hands. “It’s very light.” 

“You have good taste,” the Mandalorian compliments, taking the pistol from you thoughtfully. You watch with fascination as his gloved hands expertly charge the slide, tilting his head. He looks back up at you. “They teach you how to handle it?”

An offending huff comes from somewhere behind him, but you grin proudly. “I know how to put it together, take it apart, clean it, and reload it.” 

“Good.” He straightens, offering a hand to you that you take gratefully. You didn’t realize how much you’d miss his companionship until you were apart, and you squeeze his fingers with a gentle sigh. That is, until he speaks next. 

“Now stand up, and I’ll show you how to shoot it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> Ad'ika - little one
> 
> Su cuy’gar - "You're still alive." A greeting or form of hello.
> 
> Tion'cuy? - Who's this?
> 
> Cuyir dar gar riduur? - Is she not your wife?
> 
> Sa jate sa - As good as
> 
> Vod’ika - Little sister
> 
> Mandokarla - Showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of Mandalorian virtue.
> 
> Ver’verd - mercenary


	3. It's Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian teaches you how shooting a blaster can make you feel good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all don't know how nervous I am to post this.  
> Whew. I hope it's...ok.  
> Rating updated!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been so kind and encouraging. I definitely couldn't have made it to 2 chapters, much less 20.

Your eyes widen, mouth opening and closing much like a fish. He was going to teach you how to shoot it? It doesn’t quite make sense in your mind, and you try to form the words to explain that it isn’t a good idea to teach someone who can’t see a target how to shoot. The Mandalorian turns to face the two husbands still attempting to deflect knives off their armor, brandishing the WESTAR-34, and asks, “May I borrow this?”

“Keep it,” Rhalaz grunts, throwing a knife so hard it knocks Briinx’s helmet back against the wall with a dull clang. The grey armored Mandalorian looks over at you both. “There’s some refurbished charge packs in that case, there.” 

The Mandalorian kneels to open the case, pocketing the ammunition while you carefully climb down from the workbench. He slips the blaster beneath his belt so it’s snugly secured on his hip, and you blush when he touches your back to usher you forward. The contradiction between the rough handling of the gun and the tender way he touches you leaves you confused and flustered. You pause before you can climb the stairs and pull away from him when the two warriors exhaust their supply of knives. You take Rhalaz by surprise when you lean up on your toes to press a kiss to the cheek of his helmet, and then his husband’s. 

“Thank you for teaching me,” you say softly, smiling with your gratitude.

Briinx shuffles his feet, ducking his helmet, and Rhalaz rubs the back of his neck. “A-Any time.”

You hear a snort come from the Mandalorian behind you, and you rock forward on the balls of your feet. “Really? Can I come back tomorrow?” 

They exchange a look before shrugging at the same time. Rhalaz gestures to a rack of blaster pistols and blades. “We’ll be cleaning and repairing weapons from spars, if you want to help.”

“I do,” you tell them, folding your hands to keep from fidgeting with excitement.

“ _ Cuyir ramikadyc _ , Djarin,” Rhalaz laughs, and you feel the Mandalorian beside you seem to straighten, standing taller. Briinx chuckles too, picking up the fallen knives scattered on the ground.

“You’ll need to give me language lessons next,” you smile, tapping a finger on the Mandalorian’s chest plate. He follows your finger with his visor, looking down and where your finger pokes him. “I should know what people say about me.”

"Oh, you don’t know?” Briinx teases, an absolutely fiendish energy overcoming him.

“No,” you puff, swinging your hands down at your sides. “And he’s always calling me names that I don’t know the meaning of.”

Rhalaz tilts his head curiously, but Briinx straightens with no less than ten knives in both hands. “Oh,  _ vod’ika _ , I’d endeavor to teach it to you. What does he call you?”

“Well-”

“ _ Jate ge’catra, _ ” the Mandalorian snaps, suddenly ushering you up the stairs so quickly you nearly trip. The resounding laughter from the two warriors nearly shakes the rocky tunnel walls behind you. You lift the hem of your dress so you don’t stumble over it, but you’re also steadied by his hand finding the small of your back, his other held out for you to take as you both climb to the top of the stairs. You follow him down the tunnel, letting him lead you as you regain your breath and balance. After a few moments of shared silence, a thought occurs to you, and you cock your head to the side.

“If I didn’t know better, you don’t want me to learn your language,” you say quietly, frowning in thought.

The Mandalorian stops so suddenly, his hand gripping yours tightly, that you nearly tumble forward again. He turns his visor upon you in the middle of the deserted tunnel, and you swallow, feeling not unlike prey before a predator.

He hesitates, his voice near a rasp when he finally says, “That’s not true.”

“Then why have you never told me what all of those names mean? Or bother translating so that I might learn?” you ask, feeling not a little hurt. The emotion you feel is akin to being swept under a rug, and you feel your cheeks begin to burn. “I...I’ve told you that I want to do my part.”

He makes a noise of distress beneath his helmet then, letting his hand fall to cup your cheek while the one at your back gently splays out over your waist, bringing you closer. “I will-I-I promise I will,” he murmurs, gently butting the cold beskar of his helm against your hairline. “It isn’t because of anything you have done or-or haven’t done.”

You draw your teeth over your bottom lip, looking down at the shine of his chest plate as he draws the fingertips of his glove affectionately up your cheek to tickle your ear. You flinch, the teasing caress bringing a smile from your lips, and you hear him breathe a puff of amusement.

“There is much I want to teach you,” the Mandalorian sighs, sliding both arms around you in a warm embrace. You feel the uneasy stirrings of your heart begin to settle, and you rest your reddened face against the cool steel. “I am...honored you would want to learn.”

Long moments pass, and you take a deep breath of him, smelling sage and sea salt upon the fabric at his neck, and you feel the pressure of his helmet resting on the crown of your head. It is a familiar, comforting weight, and your arms squeeze his middle. “Starting with target practice?”

“Starting with target practice.”

He leads you to a tunnel with a dead end, positioning you several meters back. The tunnel has high, thin slats that let the daylight in, partially keeping the dim tunnel more or less out of darkness. Attached to the ceiling at the end of the tunnel hangs a hook, as if to hold a lantern, and a rope dangles from it, connecting to the wall. You watch curiously as the Mandalorian removes his chest plate with ease, lashing the rope around it and tying it securely so it hangs like a gong. He strides back towards you, taking the WESTAR-34 from his belt. “Now, is it loaded?”

You shake your head, blinking as he passes you the gun and takes the charge pack from his pocket. You silently take it and begin to assemble it without being told, your fingers repeating the motions you’d practiced earlier under Briinx’s careful instruction. When the chamber slides shut, the Mandalorian nods his head.

“Good.” He pauses, shifting his weight on one leg. “I keep my weapons loaded. You know that?”

Blinking, you realize that the thought never occurred to you. You look up at him with a furrow in your brow. Slowly, you say, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“And necessary for my line of work. But it’s a preference.” He touches the pistol with two fingers. “You need to decide what yours will be, should you carry a weapon.” 

“What if…” You frown, shaking your head. “What if the children-”

“They will not.” His voice is stone, steel, beskar, and it is enough to quiet your leaping conjectures. He takes your shoulders in both hands, standing behind you and gently moving you so you are aligned with the target of his chest plate. His boot nudges between your soft shoes, and you blush when he makes space between your legs by pressing his knee between your thighs. “Apart. There. Hold it and aim.”

“I-Isn’t this rather...silly?” you ask, voice trembling when you finally speak your doubt. Your face flushes such a deep shade of crimson you can feel the heat of your skin. “I-I can hardly  _ see  _ it.”

“If it’s a full grown adult,” he says, his voice pitching low over your shoulder. “You have more center of mass to aim for. Shooting isn’t hard,  _ Cyare _ . Just keep it level.” He cups your elbows and brings your arms up, and you suddenly feel every inch of him pressed against your back, his chest burning through the fabric of his shirt without the beskar between you. You can feel the buckle of his belt at the small of your back, and you hold your breath for so long that you fear you might pass out.

You press your lips together, holding the gun in front of you. His voice is so low, so quiet that the vocoder barely registers it. “Breathe,” he whispers, his thumbs stroking over the top of your elbow. You inhale, but he grunts in disapproval, dropping one hand to splay flat beneath the center of your breasts. His touch burns. “Not from your throat. From here.” He pushes against your stomach, and when you inhale, you feel your muscles release to breathe fuller. Your arms steady themselves. “Good.”

His hand slides up the length of your arm, cupping your hand over the gun. “Only point a weapon at someone you intend to destroy,” he rumbles, and you feel it at your back, in his unarmored chest, like the heat of a fire. “Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to take a life.”

You close your eyes, breathing deeply, the rasp of his voice raking over the skin of your neck.

“Ready?” His hands retract, laying upon your shoulders. It makes you feel small. He doesn’t withdraw from your back, and you nod silently. You try to breathe, try to ignore the heat at your back and on your shoulders and coming from beneath that polished black glass visor you know is watching your every move.

But the end of the tunnel is so dark. You squint hard to attempt to make anything out, and you drop your arms in defeat, muttering, “I can’t  _ see- _ ”

“Look here.” He envelopes you, drawing his arms around both of your own, and you feel the brush of his cloak on either side of your body. He brings both of your arms up once more, squeezing your elbows before withdrawing to cup the side of your neck and the swell of your hip. “Watch. Don’t rush. You don’t need to see everything. This is not about perfection.” 

Steadying yourself again, you nod and do as he says. His helmet rests just behind your crown, and you stare helplessly into the darkened end of the hall. To any able bodied individual, you expect they wouldn’t even need to squint to see the end of the hall, much less his armor acting as a target. But the dim light and the dull rocks of the walls make everything so blurry. 

Until, a glint of beskar catches that meager light, a gleam so bright that even you could see it for miles. You raise your eyebrows, the tension evaporating from your face.

“Breathe,” he murmurs a gentle reminder, his hands coming to rest on your waist now. You think he may be making sure you  _ are _ still breathing.

The seconds tick by, and when you see that traitorous flash of metal again, you pull the trigger. The blaster bolt is sudden and vibrates up your arms, shocking you from the noise and the violence of it. Residue hangs in the air, a thick, sweet chemical expulsion of the gas chamber.

The chest plate swings fast, twirling on the rope from the force of the hit, and a smile splits your face. “I-I did it,” you breathe, exhilaration flooding your senses as you look down at the gun before turning your face upward. “I did it!”

“You’ve done it before. You just didn’t know you could do it again.” 

You don’t realize his hands are playing with your hair until a ticklish sensation causes your skin to tingle near your ear. If you didn’t know better, he’s hardly paying attention to your lesson. You bite your lip, lowering your arms and glancing toward your shoulder where his gloved fingers play with a long lock of hair that curls near the ends. 

You need to cut it somehow. The girls at the brothel had helped you with such things before, careful of the long banner of your hair that fell down your back. They had understood your self-conscious decision to keep it long, and now with the scar that indented your skin on the back of your neck, you feel even more exposed at the idea of ridding the length.

“What are you doing?” you puff a laugh when he trails the end of the lock against your ear, making you squirm.

“It’s…” The Mandalorian pauses, two fingers holding the bit of hair from slipping away. You blink, watching him consider it and then you, his visor glancing between your face and your hair. “...pretty.” 

You aren’t aware of your lips parting in surprise, because the flush that heats your face is overwhelming enough on its own. Eyes falling down to the floor, you lower your arms, and the blaster, and you draw your bottom lip between your teeth. The silence settling between you creates a berth wide enough for a ship to fly through, even though your shoulder brushes his chest when he lets your lock of hair finally fall from his fingers.

His hands draw back behind him, a forced movement, and you hear him clear his throat quietly, looking away. “K-Keep going,” he grunts, nodding at the target. By the time the charge pack is empty of power, you have hit the chest plate enough times to send it spinning on the end of the rope like a medallion, and you finally pass him the weapon with an unconcerned air.

When he tucks the gun back into his belt and walks to the target, a thought occurs to you.

“Isn’t this a waste?” you ask curiously. He removes the chest plate, which doesn’t even have scratches from your shots. Beskar truly is unfathomable. There’s a few carbon smudges, but you know he’ll clean it before either of you fall asleep tonight. He is diligent, disciplined, and regimented in the upkeep of himself and his steel, and there is not a small part of you that respects those qualities about him. The quiet honor he has for the armor and for his way of life is something that makes your blood warm beneath your skin. It’s less to do with being part of his clan and more to do with wondering what it must be like to have all of the bounty hunter’s careful attention on yourself.

“Two hundred shots in practice can be one shot that will save your life,” the Mandalorian murmurs, taking the time to affix the armor on his person once again. You think you see his shoulders drop in relief, possibly comfort at being concealed beneath the steel again. His visor angles toward you. “Or one of theirs. That is not a waste.”

He does not need to qualify who they are.

Perhaps it’s the gleam of the black glass from his helmet, or the way the leather of his gloves strains when his hands fall at his sides, but you are, in that moment, not wanting to return to the covert’s busy hive. 

You want his attention, you realize. So, you take a step forward, catching the now limply swinging rope in your hand that hangs between you.

“Briinx and Rhalaz told me that you are the best marksman in the Tribe.”

His helmet glances away from you, mindlessly tugging the leather of his gloves up at his wrists. “They should talk less.”

“So it’s not true?” You raise your eyebrows when he glances back at you. You quirk an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say that.” 

With your free hand, you tap one finger against the beskar covering his chest. His line of sight doesn’t follow your finger this time. “You don’t have to,” you say softly, a little smile pulling at your lips. “Good men never need to speak of what they do right.” 

He’s quiet, and you wonder what he sees, what he looks for as he takes you in. Your hands are smudged with charcoal and grease, hair falling loose and your dress wrinkled where you’d been sitting and voraciously learning about the tools of destruction he’s so fluent in. He takes a step forward until the toes of his boots, thick, scuffed, and bulky, kiss the soft soles of your own. He moves so slowly that you almost don’t see it until his fingers encircle your wrist. You wordlessly let go of the rope, watching as his glove slides down to the base of your hand, his thumb ghosting over the smooth skin. 

There’s a soft puff of breath from the vocoder, and you think...yes, he is smiling.

Just as slowly, he leads your hand, patchy with black stains, to the side of his cloth covered neck. The heat from beneath the fabric startles you, and you curl your fingers when you can feel the strong thrum of his pulse.

“What of good women?”

His voice is gravel, desert heat, and rough enough to raise the hair on the back of your neck. Your mouth is dry, and you don’t realize you have moved until you feel the cool rock wall pressing against your back. Your heart begins to beat heavier, a harder drum that should rattle your teeth, and you tilt your chin up to find what little boldness you still possess. The hand not cupping his neck falls to the buckle of his belt, and you gently pull him toward you. Both his gloves rest on either side of your body against the wall, and when his full weight presses against yours, a small sigh escapes your lips.

“I imagine,” you murmur, feeling the gentle press of cool beskar as he lowers his helmet to rest upon your shoulder. “They are the ones you kneel for.”

His helmet tilts to one side, and it is not unlike the predatory consideration of a hunter looking down upon prey. You can’t help but swallow, your lips parting when he slowly, slowly lowers himself to kneel before you. The air is hard to breathe, you find, when his gloved hands touch the sides of your hips, lowering over your dress covered legs. You try your hardest to hold the glaring gleam of that black glass visor, shivering when his leather covered fingers dip beneath your hem. You lay your palms flat against the rock behind you, leaning your entire weight into it when you feel the shifting of fabric at your ankles. When his hands circle around your calves, you only feel bare, smooth skin that’s warm as sun baked sand. 

Your knees shake when he cups behind them, leaning forward until the beskar chest plate brushes your front. Your blush is so hot you can feel it against your eyes when he presses his knee between your boots, forcing you to make room for him. His palm is wide, smooth, and warm when it feels the inside of your knee, then your thigh. You hope he is prepared to catch you if you fall. You’re sure now that your legs will buckle at any moment.

His hands curve beneath the slope of your thighs, and you suck in a breath when he leans his helmet forward, pressing the cold beskar against your belly. When he speaks, his voice is unlike anything you have heard before-rasping, a gravelly, underworld sound that threatens to black you out from want.

“May I feel you,  _ cyar’ika _ ?”

Licking your lips, you do not trust yourself to speak, staring down at the helmet hiding its visor against your body. You’re not sure if he could even hear you now if you did manage to speak. So, instead, you slowly rest one hand upon his pauldron, the other brushing the crown of his helmet. You don’t know how it’s enough, how the press of warm flesh against cold beskar could be good enough to give him your acquiesce, but he moves as if you’ve whipped him into the task of grabbing your leg and pulling it over his shoulder. 

The skirts of your dress are haphazardly tossed upward, practically covering him from view, and it’s all you can do to keep your balance and still remember to breathe. The loud, unadulterated sound of metal hitting stone goes bone deep, and you turn your head to press your cheek against the rock just as his helmet rolls along the ground to the side of you. He has you pinned with one forearm across your belly, holding up part of your dress while the other hand cups beneath your bottom to bring you forward. You feel the scratch of newly shaven facial hair against the delicate skin of your thigh, and your hand flies from his pauldron to cover your mouth, smothering the yelp you can’t swallow in time. Your hand upon his pauldron moves to cup the nape of his neck, squeezing the tension he holds from eagerness, as if you’ve allowed him to sup water after a journey in the desert.

The thin cotton shaped against your hips feels like air with the way he simply moves it aside with nimble fingers, and you shut your eyes tight against the wave of dizziness it brings on. His lips are so soft, softer than you remember when you kiss, and pressing against the inside of your leg is like nothing when he puts his mouth fully on you. The noise you make is disgraceful, a choked moan beneath your hand, unfamiliar and wanton. Your leg supporting your weight shakes with every slow stroke, with every satisfied hum that comes from the man between your legs, and your face is burning from how good it feels.

You’ve never felt so good. You didn’t know it was possible to feel so good.

One of his hands braces you behind your shaking leg, just beneath your rear, and you whimper and practically convulse when he runs his tongue up and down and  _ moans _ . You think it isn’t possible for him to-to enjoy this, not as much as you are, but the tightening of his fingers on your leg and the way his arm pins you in place when you begin rolling your hips into his mouth makes you doubt.

It’s only then you realize he’s speaking, muffled beneath your skirts and against honey soaked skin. His voice is ragged, panting around eager, clumsy kisses and sips between your legs, and when he slips two fingers to replace his mouth, you realize he’s been reduced to the language of Mandalore, his mind unable to keep up with what he is feeling in time to translate. You dig your nails harder into the thick muscle beneath the back of his neck, and he growls, pulling his hand away to suddenly grab your other leg up over his other shoulder. 

The noise you make, half a yelp and half a scream, echoes against the rocks. Your heart is hammering against your breast, grabbing onto the uneven surface behind you for balance as he pulls you onto his mouth with an unforgiving, possessive hold. The rhythm of tongue and lips and fingers and teeth are building in your belly a coiled tightness that makes it hard to form thoughts. You need to tell him he has to stop. He has to stop or you’re going to break, it’s going to hurt, but you can only press the backs of your heels against his back to hold him closer.

When he buries his face with the fervent, broken rhythm of desperation, you bear your teeth like a snare and cry out when you feel the break. It crests, building and swelling until tears run down from the corners of your eyes, arching your back helplessly with the need to move and breathe and struggle against the goodness of it. You don’t realize you’re sobbing, or that you’re weakly beating at his back for mercy, or that he’s cooing  _ mesh’la _ over, and over, and over.

Hiccuping, you can’t keep the spasms filling your every breath, a pitiful gasp. He moves so slowly in the languid, lazy moments after, pressing his naked cheek against your lower belly and breathing with you until your tears have dried on your neck and the sweat on your face has cooled. Your thighs have warmed his pauldrons, which you feel as he gingerly shifts you back to your feet. 

Promptly, your knees buckle. And he does catch you, hugging your legs and letting you brace your hands at the top of his back. You can feel him laughing beneath you, and you blink the salt from your lashes, forming one hand into a fist to thump his shoulder with a helpless smile.

“I told you I’d get on my knees for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> Cuyir ramikadyc - "She is ramikadyc." This is a commando state of mind - an attitude that he/she can do anything, endure anything, and achieve the objective. A blend of complete confidence and extreme tenacity instilled in special forces during training. Can also be used informally to describe a determined, focused person.
> 
> Vod'ika - Little sister.
> 
> Jate ge’catra - Good evening.
> 
> Cyare - Beloved
> 
> Mesh'la - Beautiful
> 
> Cyar’ika - Sweetheart, darling


	4. Because We Were Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reconcile what it means to belong with a Mandalorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to extend such a sincere thank you to everyone who sent me encouraging messages and left me such wonderful, thoughtful comments and reviews on my last chapter. I truly was very nervous about it, and all of you were so kind. I hope you like this installment, too! There is a slight nod to one of my favorite fictional exchanges in this chapter, and I hope y’all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

You’ve never felt so relaxed, and you think it must be _obvious_.

Lounging back on the cushions piled on the sleeping pallet, with the baby in the crook of your arm and Venka and Corde on either side of you, nothing could move you from this spot. Your gift from Din is propped against your legs, and you read aloud about sentient plant species of the planet Ryyk. All three children are enraptured with how your fingers moved over the raised markings on the pages, their eyes growing heavy as your voice turns something so dry and scientific into a wondrous, mythical story.

You are not paying attention to it, though. 

No, your gaze, heavy lidded with satisfaction, is arrested upon the shadow of the Mandalorian sitting with his back propped up against the wall across the room from you. He’s cleaning his blaster-or rather, he had been, but he seems disinterested in it now, his visor trained upon your form. You are acutely aware of how bare your legs are beneath your dress, how the children playing with you earlier has left the hem rucked up around your knees. You are completely modest, but that stoic, unflinching visor leaves you feeling bare and wanton.

Physical acts of passion are not altogether mysterious to you. Living as a handmaiden on a large estate had exposed you to spying various servants return from chores, giggling and flushed. Hearing washerwomen complain about their own husbands’ stamina, or the lewd, indecorous comments stormtroopers would make when they patrolled the palace. You were always kept at a distance, safely beside the Moff’s wife to attend her, but you instinctively knew what drew heated gazes and wandering hands. 

You shiver, and it is not from your slow-drying hair from your bath. There exist steamy pools beneath the covert’s floors, hot springs that ease your muscles and wash the sweat and passion from your skin to help clear your mind. But now, back in the warm quarters you share with the man who’s gazing at your bare knees, you feel that gentle, amorous ache return.

The Mandalorian moves suddenly, quiet as a whisper, and stands. His armor is already removed, polished and gathered neatly upon the table where the children’s pencils and papers still lay. He moves with the languid stride of a hunter and crouches beside the pallet, balancing on the balls of his sock-clad feet. His Helmet tilts to the side. “I think,” he whispers, sliding his hands around the infant whom you realize has fallen asleep against your abdomen. “It’s time for bed.” 

You let the book close, glancing down at the other two children who have nodded off on either side of you. Unperturbed, you lay your head back, watching as the shadow of the bounty hunter moves slowly through the warm room, murmuring something to the gently fussing baby on his shoulder, too low for you to hear. He rubs the infant’s back, speaking quietly and holding him until he settles back down. Pressing the hatch open of the pram, he carefully lowers the baby into the warmth and safety within. There’s a moment where he situates the blankets inside, making sure to tuck the child in before closing the shutters once more. 

Turning back, you smile when he returns to pick up Corde, carrying her like a little bird in his strong arms. You situated several of the cushions, large and overstuffed as they were, across the room through a small archway in a vestibule connecting the quarters. Din lays her on top, placing Venka beside her before covering them with one of the thick furs that had been left for your use. It isn’t a surprise the Mandalorians had prepared for the chill. The tunnels are glacial in their emptiness.

Beneath his armor, Din wears only a black tunic and trousers, but he has many just like them. You’ve mended various articles of his clothing over the months you’ve stayed aboard the Razor Crest, even though he insists there is no need. The ones he wears now are newer, with no holes or patches, sturdy and warm. 

He has already removed his belt and boots, and now, as he circles the room, quietly extinguishing all but one of the lanterns with his fingertips, you take the opportunity to admire his form and shape. He left you earlier in the evening after showing you where the women’s bathing rooms are, and by the smell of sage and sea salt that greets you as he sits down, you know he must have found respite in the hot showers too. 

Sitting heavily beside you, you hear his deep sigh that seems to come from years of tireless, thankless work. You reach your hand forward, feeling the clean fabric of his shirt as you rub your fingers in soothing circles between his shoulders. The shoulders your legs were draped over just a few hours before. You blush at the thought.

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move at all save to drop his head forward. A far cry from just a few months before. A thought occurs to you, and your hand lays flat against the middle of his back. You can feel his heartbeat against your palm.

“You’ve taken your helmet off to sleep before,” you whisper, mindful of the children across the quarters, sleeping deeply in the connecting room. “Why don’t you do it here? It must be more comfortable.” When he says nothing, when he doesn’t move, simply allowing you to rub his back, you take a deep breath. “Unless…unless you can’t in front of them-in front of me-”

“I can,” he finally murmurs, stopping and turning to look at you over his shoulder. The smoky glass of his visor is that of a dying star, and you hold your breath as you watch his every movement. His hand, bare, rests between your bodies on the bed like a bar of gold. “I can remove it…before a wife and child.”

You feel all the air leave your body, the room, the world, and you stare at the shape of his helmet’s profile against the lone lantern lit in the corner. Neither of you speak, and what is not said is heavy, thick in the air. Your fingers flex on top of your legs, and you swallow hard, slowly sitting up on your knees until you’re knelt beside him. A show of good faith, you decide, is the natural next step to be taken between you together. Taking the hem of your dress, you shuffle it up the length of your body, pulling and tugging it until it escapes your hair, then your crown, and you shake your arms from your sleeves. 

Beneath, you still wear more clothes than some people wear in public. Your chemise falls just above your knees, made of simple cotton and breathable for the desert. It bares your arms, your neck, and more of your chest than you are used to showing anyone, though, and you blush deeper when the Mandalorian suddenly raises a hand out towards you. 

You suck in a breath, watching the shape of his hand hesitating to touch you. Unsure of what his intention is, you bite your lip and wait, only for him to reach upward to touch the side of your face with a tender sweep of his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp, hoarse and dry as a dead leaf.

“Do...do you know how pretty you are?”

The question is sincere, but it almost makes you laugh. The smile it brings to your face and the bashful shake of your head as you sit back making you feel like a girl. “Do you say that to all the people who take care of your children?” you tease, finally looking back up toward his visor. His helmet dips a bit deeper to the side, and you smile, shaking your head again. “What?”

“You...you really don’t, do you?” The realization in his voice is soft, heartbroken, and your own smile slips away, looking down at your hands. You shrug lightly, picking up the fabric of your dress and folding it meekly before laying it aside. “You haven’t seen yourself since you were a child.”

“Appearances are simple accidents.” 

“Even if beauty were something to be gained, _Cyare_ , you would still have men falling to their knees.” Your eyes drift up to his visor, wide and still, thinking of how willing he was to kneel before you, under you, and you don’t dare to breathe as his thumb traces over the plush flesh of your lips. “ _Mesh’la._ ”

The corner of your eyes squint and your lips curve into a soft smile against the tips of his fingers that hover near your chin. “Beautiful,” you murmur, the realization like a gentle hum thrumming in your veins. “That’s what it means, doesn’t it?”

His hand lowers carefully, and he nods once. You catch his hand between both of yours, appreciating the difference between the tone of your skin and the soft golden hue of his own. You lose yourself in feeling the smoothness of his palm, the curves of his fingers, your mind trying to drudge up the first time he spoke that lovely Mando’a to you. Your eyes fall closed, pressing your forehead against the gentle curve of his shoulder, and you smile when his other hand reaches up to touch your hair with reverence.

“Lay down,” he whispers, sinking his fingers through the thick tresses at your neck. “Be still.”

Your body seems to move of its own volition, and you gently lean back until you lay upon the cushioned bed. After a moment’s pause, you turn, angling your body away, and slide your arms beneath the pillow under your head, closing your eyes. The Mandalorian sighs, deep from within his chest, and there’s a long moment of silence before you hear the familiar hiss of the helmet, the catch releasing, and the quiet settling of metal upon the floor. The bed dips beside you, and he shuffles close, tucking his knees behind yours and laying his arm over your waist atop the thick fur keeping you warm.

His thumb strokes the skin of your arm exposed to the air, and you become aware of the strong, clean scent of his hair. It must still be damp from his shower, you think, and you smile when he presses his face into the pillow of your own locks.

“Karga gave me another bounty,” he whispers, his voice so low that you feel it more than hear it.

“Mmm?” 

Sleep is encroaching on your state of mind, lulling you between dreaming and wakefulness. The only thing keeping you anchored in the present is his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. He is quiet for so long that you would suspect he has fallen asleep, save for his gentle touches. His hand drops away, coming to lay his palm flat over your heart which jumps beneath. 

“It’s dangerous,” Din whispers, his lips now pressed to the back of your neck. You feel the slight tickle of his facial hair, the brush of his tongue as he speaks against your skin. The sound of his voice fades as you fall asleep, too warm, too comfortable, too safe to pull yourself back. “And...and I need to ask you something before...”

 _Yes_ , you think. _Yes, yes, yes_.

But now he has fallen away, and you are far gone. In the air, you can taste dust and blaster residue. The child is crying in your arms, his beautiful little face scrunched in fear and his ears drooping with desperation, silently begging you to turn back, to go back. You have both left something behind, but you know that there are monsters near, barrels trained at your back. 

_I’m sorry, my love, ner ad’ika, but we can’t._

_We can’t._

Light flickers in the darkness before you, and you feel as if you’re about to fall, your toes tipping near the edge of a crevice in the earth. Beneath your feet lay battered, broken bits of armor, Mandalorian helmets too many to count, and you want to run. 

But you can’t go back.

And so, you fall forward, curling around the child before your body breaks against cold, unforgiving beskar beneath.

The undeniable crack of bone rings in your ears, a phantom of dreams that propels you straight up in bed. Sitting still, you stare into the darkness before you, your heart thundering louder than a battle, sweat slicking your skin and sticking your long hair to the sides of your face, your neck, your back and arms. Briney tears crust over your cheeks, and you breathe heavily when you feel the shift of a warm body beside you.

The lone lantern that had been left alight to glow on the small table isn’t enough for you to make out the Mandalorian’s face. When you turn to look at him, tousled in sleep and at peace, you still. His face is turned away from you into the pillow, dark hair long and curling on the ends. His shirt has rucked itself up around his middle, displaying beautiful golden skin that is greatly misshapen with jagged, uneven scars. You reach out a trembling hand, tracing one particularly deep line that mirrors an animal’s bite over his hip, and the colors remind you of the gold lacquer used to fill the cracks of broken, priceless treasures the Moff has collected. 

You look away, standing upon shaky legs to slip from the bed silently. His cloak lays on the table, and you wrap it around yourself, the familiar scent of cool woods calming your roaring heart. 

Venka and Corde sleep soundly at the opposite end of the quarters. They’ve kicked off their shared fur, and the little girl has somehow completely changed her position so she sleeps upside down. The pram floats silently nearby, and the urge to open the shutters nearly makes you vibrate. Your finger brushes over the locking mechanism, but you remember feeling the blood leave your mouth, the pain disappear, and the child fall into your arms. You pull back.

When you step into your boots, you’re unsure where you plan to go or what your intention is, but as soon as you enter the passageway, the frigid air blows your hair from your face and cools the heat of your skin. You walk down the path, drawing the cloak around your arms tighter. You can hear the reverberating snores of other warriors behind you as you leave the tunnel.

There is a possibility you will get lost, but you think it is less terrifying than returning to what woke you. 

As you move, silent save for the quiet whisper of the Mandalorian’s thick cloak, you become aware of a great and terrible sound. It is as if the stone walls have become the crypt of your dream, and you can hear its heartbeat. When the rhythm continues, a high peal of metal, you begin to follow it through the passages of stone and rock until the alcove of the forge lights your vision.

You lay your hand upon the threshold, leaning around the side in time to see the Armorer bringing her hammer down. It sends up sparks of gold and blue which ripple into brilliant red moments after they kiss the air. Whatever she holds into the forge is turned before she brings it out with tongs, setting it upon a cooling rack.

And then she turns her golden horns upon you, and you swallow.

“I often work when I cannot sleep,” she says pointedly, setting her tools down with a deliberate slowness you think might be for your benefit. She steps around to the front of her forge, holding out a gloved hand to the small table. You see, as you approach, that there is a cushion, and you sit down with a quiet thanks. She turns away, moving to the far side of the room. Blinking in the near darkness, you think you can make out a curtain separating the alcove and another space near the back. It’s a long few moments before she returns through it, bearing a tray. “What do you do, when you cannot sleep?”

You open and close your mouth, watching as she sets the tray upon the table between you. There is one clay cup full of a steaming dark drink, and on a small plate lay a round, flat cake that could sit in the palm of your hand. 

“I don’t usually struggle to sleep,” you confess, folding your hands in your lap. She nods once to the cup, and you take it with another quiet, polite word of gratefulness. The ceramic is warm between your hands, and when you lift the rim to your mouth, the scent is earthy and sweet. It reminds you of digging your hands into black soil, smelling honeysuckle just beneath your nose, and it fills you with comfort when you take a drink. 

“Only the innocent, the safe, and the dead keep that luxury.” You still, your pale eyes drifting up to the golden shine of her helm as she inclines it to watch you. “Which are you?”

Her words chill you deeper than the air around you. It’s your instinct to shy from confrontation, but something inside, a still, small voice whispers to you that this is not a battle. You take a steadying breath before sipping deeply from the drink. You set the cup down, fingers shaking as you draw them back to rest on your thighs. You think of the Moff’s wife, of your parents. “I don’t know if I have earned to claim any of those things.” 

A quiet hum comes from beneath her helmet, and she relaxes her shoulders, resting her gloves on her knees. “You doubt your place here, in the covert and in the world.”

For some reason, the gentle tone of her accusation spears you. Tycho’s strike across your face had not hurt so much as her gentle words, and you have to take a steadying breath. “Have you never felt lost?” you ask, squinting in the near darkness of your vision. “Or do all Mandalorians know their place?”

“We are Mandalorians because we were lost.” She reaches forward and begins to break the flat cake in pieces, putting them before you. With careful fingers, you pick up one of the tiny pieces and take a bite, tasting sweetened syrup, fruits, and nuts. “Each and every one of us, even those born into the Tribe will question their place. You must decide what will allow you to take yours. Is it the approval of your clan? The acceptance of the Tribe?” She pauses, her hands stilling before looking up at you. “Or ridding yourself of your fear?”

Your mouth is dry after the cake, so you take another sip of the warm drink, your heart beating heavily in your breast. “I...I think it’s all of those things. I cannot imagine being happy without all three.”

“A Mandalorian is both hunter and prey. You must not allow yourself to be consumed by lesser beings if you wish to walk the way of the clan.” You frown, opening your mouth because who or what could be lesser than a slave? Or a Mandalorian who cannot fight? Being given your freedom was more than you had ever hoped for, but now she spoke as if you had a right to claim part in their Tribe. “You are the right hand of your clan, and you fear you may crumble because you are not a mountain.” 

Your lips tremble when you smile at her. “If I can’t be strong for...for him, for the children, what use am I?”

“They don’t need your strength. They need you.” 

The simple truth brought you to a quiet within yourself you’d never experienced. Thinking on it, you knew what she meant, because it is what you feel for the Mandalorian. There is not one part of him that you care for more than the rest, and there is not one part that is more important than any other. It all makes up the man who’s held your heart for you ever since he stroked your hair in the sunshine. It is all contained within the beskar, warm and alive, and the quiet revelation that this is what he has been trying to tell you, of what you bring to the clan is yourself, leaves you shaking with heat.

The Armorer seems to sense the shift inside you, and she nods once. Her words, which are not a question, implore you when she says, “You will find your way back now.”

Your feet pad quietly but swiftly against the stone passageway, the cloak snapping behind you as you turn the corners, taking you back to the sleeping quarters. You don’t need to look to find it because there is a gentle warmth from that end of the enclave that is found nowhere else in the underground. Parting the curtain, you step inside to find nothing changed since you left, and you drop the cloak back onto the table, your pale eyes settling on the sleeping man at the far end of the room.

Dropping your boots silently near the foot of the bed, you crawl atop the fur, clumsy in your haste to get beneath and put your hands on the warm body that has not moved an inch since you departed. Your hands are cold compared to his warm skin, sliding your palm up to cup the smooth, clean shaven jaw resting upon the pillow. 

“Din,” you whisper, your thumb finding a small, thin scar on his cheek. His name tastes lovely on your tongue. “ _Din_.”

He puffs a breath against the pillow, turning his already shadowed face into the fabric, but his hand captures yours, holding it against his chest protectively. You slide down further beneath the fur, your heart beating steadily faster. You aren’t sure what you can say, what you need to say. Sliding your leg gently between his own, pressing your knee forward, you push yourself against him until your lips steal beneath his ear, the sweet bit of skin on his neck tasting of soap and salt and heat. “Din.”

You know he is waking when his other hand finds its way against the small of your back, heavy and firm and hot through the thin material of your chemise. You close your eyes against the brush of dark, curling hair, and you smile, whispering his name softly until you know he is well and truly awake. 

“I need you to wake up,” you whisper, your lips trailing up along the shell of his ear. You feel a shiver work its way down his back, and you let your hand drift down to the hem of his shirt, still bunched around his middle. Dragging your palm over the pleasing dips and curves of muscle and softness of his body, you can feel the marks left behind from dragging your nails against him earlier. You hadn’t realized you’d marked him, and you turn your lips to find the crinkles near his eyes. 

“Why?” The question is merely a breath, sleepy yet content.

“Because I am without you.” 

You feel him tense, his back growing tight with caution, but you know inherently it is not fear that stills him. Slowly, his hand at your back circles the fleshy curve of your waist, gently leaning you back and beneath him so he can look down upon you. He is nothing but shadow, the stone ceiling above cast gold from the meager light of the lone lantern. You shift beneath him, eyes closing when you part your legs to welcome him closer, and you feel him hold his breath when he settles closer against your heat. 

“You’re never without me,” he whispers, one hand drifting up to cup the side of your face. His palm is large, dry, and warm, and when his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, you turn your face towards his fingers, kissing the smooth skin. He holds his breath as you draw your legs upward, your knees pressing into his flanks. He says your name, so soft and full of concern that you open your eyes again.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back, lifting your hand to touch the side of his neck. Your other splays against the middle of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. There is too much space, too much air between you. He needs to know what you know now so completely, and you don’t know if there are words for it in any language that exists.

When he presses his forehead against yours, you slide your hand up from the side of his neck to the nape, cupping the back of his head softly. He follows your every whim, pressing his mouth against yours without fault or hesitancy, and when you curl your knees upward, he is eager to rock against you. You part your lips, welcoming him into the warmth of your mouth with a sweetness you’ve never known, but when his hands come to bury into your hair, you break away gently.

You stare up at him, bold with honesty, soft with wanting, and you know he sees in your face a conviction that has been out of your reach before coming to the covert. He does not question you, and you think you must love him for that.

For you do love him. You know that now.

Both hands drift down, fingering the hem of his shirt until he bumps his nose against your own. You think the end must be slightly hooked, the way it rests against your own, and you smile when his mustache tickles you. Lifting his shirt slowly up from his sides, then over his back, he bows his head to let you peel it off, dropping it somewhere above your head. 

Though you lay on your back, he only follows your movements, letting you lead his mouth to your lips, your neck, your hair. Your fingers crawl up to your own shoulders peeling the edges of your chemise down your arms. The neckline catches over the swell of your breast, and you can hear the gentle hitch of his breathing. He must be able to see more in the dark than you expected, and you feel yourself blush as he draws smooth, uncalloused fingers down from your throat. He traces the neckline with his thumb, brushing over your tender flesh and drawing the flimsy fabric down, down, down until it slips and pools around your waist.

When he lowers his mouth to the soft skin above your breast, pressing with lips and teeth and consecration, your eyes flutter closed. You feel like the drink you consumed, swirling and dark and hot, and with every kiss and press to your flesh, he sips more, deeper, longer. You don’t realize you are panting until you feel his own heavy, humid breath moving down the slope of your stomach. His fingers inch the fabric upward as he moves lower, and when his mouth comes to the delicate skin of your belly, you make a noise between a whimper and gasp. You try to swallow it, but he tenses anyway.

He couldn’t possibly do this a second time. Could he?

His hands flatten against the sides of your hips, and you are grateful when he doesn’t stop, when he doesn’t hesitate to curl his fingers in the top of your underwear because you don’t have the words, the air to beg him to continue. The slow pull of the fabric down your legs does nothing to disguise his want or cool your own, and you bite your lip on a giggle of surprise when he nuzzles his cheek against the inside of your knee.

He’s beneath the thick fur, but nothing could hide the smile he presses to the top of your thigh. You flinch only once, your instinct to close your legs powerful, but a quiet whisper of your name from below you grounds you against the bed.

When he puts his mouth on you, it is unlike any feeling you have ever experienced. A drumming, strumming electricity that snaps in your belly connecting to the pit of your chest, and you suck in such a sharp gasp that his hand shoots up to smother your noises, palm strong against your lips. He is gentle but fervent, kissing you open until you feel like you are living heat. His tongue trails up, pressing firm against something that has your body rolling like a cresting wave. It occurs to you as his hand keeps you quiet, the other is busy lower sliding up the back of your thigh to lead it over his back. 

And then he moans against you, and your hand comes down hard against his back again. Nails dig desperately into the hard flesh of muscle against his shoulder, and he buries his face between your thighs until you are slick with sweat, with desire, with need. He presses his thumb up the curve of your thigh, the firm pad of his digit deepening against you while he drags his mouth up to kiss wet and desperate along your stomach. 

That familiar heat, the tightness coiling like a well oiled spring, becomes undeniable when he returns his mouth to the sweetest spot on your body. Your blood sings to the drum of your heart, and the hand not anchored on his back covers his own that keeps your noises muffled. 

When his cheeks hollow with his furnace of a mouth supping between your thighs, you _do_ break. Your vision blurs, blacks, and you can’t control your body. It’s ecstasy and fear, seizing in such joy that tears slip from the corners of your eyes to dampen your hair. It feels like a fight when your legs curl over his shoulders to hug him against you, his dutiful strokes bringing you ever higher rather than easing you down. You have to jerk away from him, arching your back and sobbing beneath his hand before he will relent. He only comes up when you sink your teeth into the flesh of his palm, the thick fur falling down his shoulders and back and leaving his hair tousled. 

His forearms rest on either side of you, his large, warm hand petting your sweat dampened hair back from your face while you lay beneath him, panting in the humid air and trying to regain what little sight you have. Your eyes feel heavy lidded when you open them, and you can see a flash of white teeth when he smiles.

“ _Cyar’ika_ ,” he whispers, leaning down to press wet kisses against your salt slicked neck. The back of his knuckles brush against your belly as he shifts above you, drifting down until his fingertips find your warmth. A pathetic sound like a wounded animal tumbles from your lips, and you press your cheek into the pillow, turning your face away from the feeling he continues to draw out of you. It’s almost too much, almost hurts, but you bring your knees up higher along either side of him in welcome.

His tongue draws itself up the side of your neck, tasting and kissing in a languid pattern, combining with the gentle strokes of his hand between your thighs until you feel like you’ll burn from the inside out. Shaking, your hands find the back of his neck where the familiar soft curls tangle around your fingers. He moans at your touch, and you let your nails lightly tickle his skin until he shivers. 

He draws his face up to your own, nuzzling noses and pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your lips part, sharing the same breath and turning your mouth closer to kiss him. The taste is unimaginable, and when he dips his tongue in your mouth, you both groan together when his fingers fill you. First one, then a second, moving in time with his lips until you're gripping his hair so tightly, you’re sure that you’re hurting him.

You whisper his name against his mouth, and he gently presses his forehead against yours, nodding in some unspoken understanding. It’s a feeling that only comes from a song or a prayer, you think dreamily, only barely cognizant of him drawing his hand away to touch himself. You smile, one hand cupping the back of his head while the other tickles his flank, stroking up and down his side. You feel his lashes against your eyebrows before he draws his lips up to kiss between them. At the same time, he rocks forward, entering you with a smooth, short push that drags all the air from your body. Suddenly your nails are digging into the firm muscle of his back, surely leaving marks like the moon, and you grit your teeth, bearing them like the animal that is your heart.

“G-Go,” you whisper, tugging at his back and his neck until he groans, burying his face in your hair and filling you with one more push. Your legs draw up around his waist, tense and tight. You’re trembling, a thrashing, crashing of blood in your veins interchanging between bliss and-and-

He kisses your eyes, soft and sweet and one at a time. His hands, warm and kind, frame your face, and he draws his thumbs over both your cheeks until you open your eyes. Your chests are pressed together, making breathing a labor, but you can feel him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Squeezing your knees together, you blink the shape of his nose into your line of sight, and you think you can see him grimace.

“Does...does it not feel good for you?” You can’t imagine or remember a time when you felt so whole. Everything is close and warm and complete, and you think you might fall apart if he so much as separates from you in that moment.

But he laughs suddenly, his chest shaking with breathy chuckles as he drops his forehead back against yours. “ _Alaar manda_ ,” he whispers, gently tilting his hips back before rocking forward again, and everything within you blooms, the joy you’d felt unfurling and growing like a ripple on water. Your heartbeat quickens when he does it again, and again, and it burns you like fire catching on kindling. 

There is a slight discomfort, an awareness that you haven’t previously experienced before, but with every gentle touch, every firm, possessive kiss, you’re able to meet each sweet movement, every unhurried, pleasing roll of his body with your own. Your eyes drift open and closed, feeling drunk on the warmth shared between you. When his other hand moves to slip down your thigh, cradling your hip just in time to thrust into you with a heavier intention, both of you bite down to muffle your groans. He drops his mouth to your shoulder, dragging his teeth over the flesh and muscle that leads to your neck, and the feeling of his warm breath has you sinking your nails into his back, raking them upward to pull him closer.

The growl that vibrates in his chest is buried in your hair, and you have to cover your mouth when he begins to quicken his pace, muffling your whimpers and gasps. The faster his hips meet yours, the harder you begin rocking together, tears pearl in your eyes in absolute bliss. The hand cupping your hip slips lower to brace beneath your bottom, and you suck in a breath when you feel him press down even harder, his other hand stealing below to touch that same lovely spot he lavished attention on before. The stunted, rocky rhythm desperately increases, and you sob against your hand when you feel sweat drip from one of his curls, landing on your cheek like a tear.

His thumb circles and rubs in tandem with every hungry and insatiable thrust, and it’s only when he bows close and grunts in your ear that your entire body arches off the bed beneath you.

Your eyes are wide open, but all you see is white.

Everything feels tight and hard and impossible, and you can’t draw enough air into your chest to muster a whimper. You only focus on keeping your hand on your face, silencing the helpless noises he knocks from your mouth when he grabs one of your knees and hauls it up beneath his forearm. He presses his sweaty face against your neck, chasing his own pleasure within you until you think you might break from the ferocity burning under his skin.

When he peaks, you grab the back of his head and hold his face in your hair, muffling the primal groan that shakes his entire body. Your vision is spotty, but slowly, you can see the golden light of the lantern playing upon the stone ceiling above you, a liquid light that matches the heat between your legs. One by one, every muscle, tendon, and joint seems to relax, and you feel yourself sink back into the cushions with a grateful, anguished sigh.

Din’s arms tremble from the effort to raise himself up enough to separate you, and you grunt softly at the emptiness he leaves behind, a strange sensation you don’t particularly care for. Everything feels numb and lofty, and you don’t care to pay attention as he shuffles beneath the fur, too warm and languid to care about the world outside this bed.

He stumbles to stand up, his trousers pulled carelessly back up around his hips, and you turn your face to watch him move through the room. Your vision swims, but you can see the golden, firm muscles of his back when he crouches down to his rucksack, the scars that paint his form and in patches along his arms catching the light. You think of the Moff’s prized treasures again, formed of porcelain and glass and veined with gold where they had once been broken.

You hear a gentle chug, and Din is returning to the side of the bed, whispering, “Here.”

His canteen is filled with cold water, and you sit up gingerly, taking it with a shy smile and sipping from the cusp. You find you have nothing to say. What is there to say, when planets orbit and stars shift just as they’re supposed to, and your world settles right where it should be? Even as he reaches over to gently pull your chemise up, more concerned with your modesty than you are, you both remain in companionable silence. You peer at him in the dim lighting, wishing you could make out his face, and as you recap the canteen, you reach up to touch his cheek.

“Thank you.” 

Even as you say the words, they could be something else, some other arrangement of words you want to speak to him in his own tongue, not in the common way that would not befit an uncommon man. You think you can see his eyes in the darkness, not unlike a feline blinking slowly and satisfied. He catches your hand before it can fall and kisses the back of your knuckles, hiding a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations
> 
> Cyare - Beloved
> 
> Mesh'la - Beautiful
> 
> Ner ad'ika - "My little one."
> 
> Aalar manda - Feels like Heaven: Manda is the collective soul or heaven - also supreme, overarching, guardian-like.


	5. Foolish and Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and the Mandalorian fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for your gracious comments and for taking the time to tell me how you think and feel about my story! This chapter is heavy with confrontation, but please keep in mind it will have a happy ending!

There are moments where you exist in the darkness of dreams that you don’t remember, and then there are the hazy, waking moments you think you are aware of what goes on around you. The first time, you find your cheek pressed to a smooth, warm chest, an even warmer arm around you with a hand that rests against the small of your back. You have never felt so wholly safe, as if nothing in the world could lay a hand upon you. It is impossible to decide if it is a dream or not.

The second time, the thin carved slats in the upper seams of the room fill with dim illumination, cutting through the darkness in the rooms. You can hear the quiet breathing of the children far away, but you are alone now, shifting against the plump cushions. There is a deep ache in your belly, a soreness in your hips and legs that you don’t recognize, but you remember heated hands holding your legs open, the scratch of rough hair against your stomach, the fervent touch of a mouth inside your knee. Shifting in the bed, your hair falls into your face, obscuring your sight when you see the shade of a man holding an infant against his shoulder, whispering in an ancient language. You think you may see his face, but you slip beneath the lull of darkness again too soon to think on it.

Another time, not long after, you can hear the quiet hiss of metal, feel the reverberations of boot-steps against the stone. You make a noise, half a puff and half a whimper, trying desperately to rouse yourself. Instead, you feel the buttery kiss of leather upon the apple of your cheek, and the tender baritone soothes you back to sleep.

When the morning begins late, only Venka seems put out. He is eager to learn something new. He signs across the small table over breaking your fast on granary bread and spicy muja fruit jelly-from where, you don’t know. It’s on the table with a pitcher of bantha milk, as if it’s meant to be there just like the beskar is meant to be upon the man feeding the mossy green child in his arms. Venka persists that the Mandalorian promised to teach them.

Din assures him that he will learn something new today. Something  _ special _ , even.

That’s what finds you all pooled together in the middle of the rooms once the children have cleared their plates. Puffing with her fists akimbo, Corde bows up before you where you’re sitting on a small wooden stool. She stares down the Mandalorian who stands behind you with as ferocious a look as a little girl can muster. 

“You’d better not mess it up,” she warns, her newly braided hair falling over her slim shoulder.

Din huffs from beneath his helmet, offended at the chastisement. His hands work carefully, experienced and sure. He had assured you that he was experienced in more areas with one, and the implication had left you blushing with his hand upon your knee under the table. “I won’t,” he mutters with no small amount of petulance. You purse your lips together, fighting off a smile as you sit straight and still for him.

“It’s pretty,” Corde emphasizes, and you giggle when the Mandalorian sighs wearily behind you. He takes direction surprisingly well, considering he’s been alone for so long. The fact the direction he takes is from a child seems just as natural, somehow.

“I know.” 

His hands are without his gloves, which are currently being held hostage by the small child in your lap. The wide, bright eyed infant blinks up at you with a drooling grin, his teeth gnashing happily into the worn leather while you pet his ears. Din abandoned the accessories when he took to his current task, standing behind you and drawing his fingers through your hair methodically. He lifts measured locks at a time, using long, shiny silver scissors he’d acquired to trim the ends of your hair with precision. Then, he draws the comb through to make sure it’s evenly cut, and you have to suppress a shiver.

Venka lays on his stomach on the floor at your feet, sighing loudly up at the rest of you with impatience. You reach back and pat the Mandalorian’s arm above his vambrace, drawing their attention back to the lesson. “Keep going, we almost have it.”

He rumbles, pacified for the time being. “ _ Aliit ori'shya tal'din _ ,” Din intones slowly, inflecting on the pronunciation so you can hear it clearly. Venka bows his head, writing it out with a pencil on a wrinkled piece of paper. He seems to favor seeing the words and letters rather than just hearing them, and he then spells it out to you in your palm in Basic Sign. You mouth the words yourself when Din repeats it, playfully tugging the glove the child holds to make him squeal.

“ _ Aliit ori'shya tal'din _ ,” Corde repeats, chirping like a bird in stunted Mando’a. You clap politely, beaming with her. When she skips over to you with her toothy smile, you pet her hair back from her face.

“It means family is more than blood,” Din murmurs, drawing his warm fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck, eliciting a delighted shiver from you when his baritone pitches low. Venka sits up on his knees, his head cocked to the side and signs a question you can’t quite make out.

But of course Din does.

He takes a deep breath, pausing and resting both of his hands on your shoulders warmly. The scissors are tucked away from the bright eyes of the little one, and you lean back happily, making faces down at the child who tries to climb up your front with earnestness to reach his father. You puff out your cheeks and cross your eyes, grinning when he giggles at your antics.

“It means those you choose to care for may not be the ones you are born to.” 

Your smile relaxes and you lean your cheek down against his hand on your shoulder.

“Like us?” Corde says, sitting beside her brother.

“Like us.”

Corde grins at that with satisfaction, and from what you can make out, you think she might lose a tooth soon. Din takes the scissors back up and continues his task, and you listen to the quiet snipping of the tool. He pointed out that he has been cutting his own hair for years, and it never occurred to you that he would have to maintain such things himself. Corde said he should show you all his hair to prove it, and he’d tossed a cushion at her. The muffled giggles from beneath the fabric still make you feel warm.

Venka puffs out a sigh, the air disturbing his curls that hang in his eyes. Venka signs something to his sister, who nods in agreement.

“Me too.”

“What is it?” you ask, playing a gentle game of tug-o-war with the baby over Din’s glove. You feel the Mandalorian set aside the scissors and pick up your brush, slowly starting from the bottom and working his way up the length of your hair. It’s one of the loveliest things you think you have ever felt.

“We like you better than our mother,” Corde says matter-of-factly, picking up one of Venka’s pencils and crossing her legs. She begins to draw something on the piece of paper once she flips it over to the back. She doesn’t see the way your face drains of color, or how Din’s hands go still in your hair.

The emotion that begins to tingle in your chest is something you’ve never felt, something you can’t describe, and it’s not altogether pleasant. In fact, it makes you feel sick, a souring, thorny sensation that you have to swallow down for fear it will come up. You let the child win the game with the glove, steadying him in your lap when he hugs the leather with zealous joy.

“I’m-I’m sure she misses you very much,” you tell them softly, your pale eyes gazing down at them. Neither child spares a glance up at you. The girl continues to draw, and the little boy works at the end of his pencil with his thumb to sharpen it. 

“No.” Corde heaves a sigh, leaning her chin in one hand while she draws.

Your face begins to pinch, parting your lips to gently insist, but a large, warm hand rests at the back of your neck, squeezing lightly. A warning, silent and discouraging. You blink hard, not near tears, but for some reason you feel overwhelmed, as if you’d just run a marathon. A cold sweat develops behind your ears, and you feel short of breath. In that moment you can’t  _ not _ speak.

You have to say something,  _ anything _ .

“Then...then I’m glad you’re here, with us.”

Venka looks up at you, watching for several long moments before climbing to his feet. He prefers to go without shoes, you find, and pads up to the child to hand him the blunt pencil before slipping his tiny arms around your waist. You bring your hand into the thick mop of burnt caramel curls, your other hand resting against his back with affection. You feel the Mandalorian lay both of his hands on your shoulders once more, warm and encompassing, pressing his thumbs into the base of your neck.

“Will you take the baby for a walk?” you ask gently, looking down into Venka’s eyes and brushing his cheek with your fingers. “He needs to stretch before his nap.” 

The small boy nods, hooking his tongue over the corner of his mouth in concentration as he picks the infant up with both hands. The baby coos in delight, kicking his little feet, but you remind him to put his shoes on first. Corde helps her brother, and the two take the baby’s three fingered hands, all of them shuffling out of the room together. You listen to their retreating footsteps, waiting until the sound is far enough away that you struggle to hear it before turning on the stool to look up at the Mandalorian.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His hands drop from your shoulders, hanging at his sides with an air of defeat. He shifts his weight, regarding you through the visor with uncertainty. “Would it have made a difference? There’s nothing we can do,” he says quietly. “And it wouldn’t change how you feel about them.”

You frown with an unfamiliar hardness pinching your temples, curling your fingers into the pale blue skirts of your dress. “I would know better how to speak to them. They...they withdrew when I brought it up.” You can’t keep the accusing tone from your voice when you meet the black glass of his visor. “I can’t help them if I don’t know things like that.”

The beskar on his chest rises and falls with a deep sigh, and he looks away and crouches down, sweeping the hair trimmings from the floor into his hand. “Corde only told me when you were sleeping after we left Cantonica. I thought we would try to find their family, but they have none. Except for a mother too indebted to a habit she can’t sustain,” he mutters, throwing the clippings into the grate. He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. The gold of his skin stands out starkly from the black fabric. “I would not deliver them back into the hands of someone unable to care for them.” 

The idea he would make that decision without speaking to you doesn’t sit well, but you fight the urge to find more fault in him and bunch the fabric of your dress between your fists instead. “Someone who didn’t want to care for them, you mean,” you mutter, looking down at the abandoned pencil and papers scattered on the floor. You kneel down slowly, retrieving the implements and ignoring the soreness in your hips, the weakness in your legs. That seems a distant memory, now.

“What do you mean?” The Mandalorian is looking at you now as you gather and arrange the papers, most of them drawn on with various different colors. You stack them carefully, considering buying a ribbon to tie them together. You think Corde would like that.

“I wouldn’t want to give them back to someone who abandoned them, either.”

“That’s not what I said.” His voice is stiff, rigid, and carefully devoid of any particular emotion you can name. You have not heard him speak thusly since you first came aboard his ship.

“Isn’t it?” You frown, picking up the pencils one at a time before putting them away in your bag. You restlessly organize the contents, keeping your hands busy. The air in the room is slowly becoming harder to breathe, and you don’t know why.

“Being able to care for a child and not wanting to care for a child are two different things,” Din says quietly, sitting down on the foot of the children’s bed. He stretches one leg out, bracing his elbow on his knee in a comfortable lounging position you’d grown to recognize, yet he still seems ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.

“Anyone who gives up their children doesn’t deserve them,” you tell him, thinking of the woman who sold her daughter and son to save herself. You had been willing to die for the child with the petal shaped ears more than once, and the choice had not been difficult to make. The very idea of abandoning any of them is...abhorrent. You couldn’t imagine leaving them alone. 

“That is bold judgment from someone who doesn’t have children of her own.” 

The words stun you, and you drop your bag to the ground, turning to look at the Mandalorian who remains stoic and cold. There’s a distinct prickle at the base of your neck, and your heart lurches at the conflict beginning to war in your breast. You open and close your mouth before finding your voice, hoarse as it is.

“E-Excuse me?”

“How can you look down on someone when you know nothing of them?” His voice is steel, ice, and you feel sick being on the receiving end of it. He doesn’t shift his pose, and he suddenly seems too still for your liking. Like an apex predator eyeing a hunt. “You have never been put to make such a choice.”

“I don’t have to,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you fight to steady it, fight to keep tears from clogging your throat. Your hands open and close at your sides, wanting to wrap your arms across your chest, to protect what feels so vulnerable and open to wound. Instead, you plant your feet and feel for the anger, the outrage that sparks from his aggression. “I would never make that decision, and I have no pity for those that do.”

He’s on his feet so suddenly that you stumble a step away, sucking in a breath.

“If it saved their life? If it would mean they would have a chance?” Din’s voice is pitched so low, so horribly hard with anger that you aren’t sure why you’re even arguing about this. You want to dig your heels in, to stop the surge of emotions that are clashing between you, but you might as well try to stop the ocean from breaking against a rock. “Would you have them starve with a mother that can’t feed them? Die or be killed in an unsafe home?”

“I know I would not sell them into slavery!” The words burst from your lips before you can stop them, your pulse pounding in your ears, ringing, surging, suffocating. Tears pearl in the corners of your eyes, and no matter how much you blink, they won’t stop. They spill like the wound in your chest. “That is not a life!”

His voice is a snarl, a bite, and you feel safe knowing it’s caged behind the beskar helmet. “Then you’re a fool of a woman.”

“And you’re a cruel man,” you whisper, the salt spilling from your lashes and turning away from him, folding your arms around yourself as if that will keep everything together, everything inside you from scattering across the stone floor. You have never wanted to hurt someone as much as you did in that moment. You want to yell, to throw something that will break, to bite through leather and steel until he feels how much  _ you _ hurt from his words alone.

And then, he  _ laughs _ at you.

Something breaks within your chest, and every soft, sweet touch and longing kiss shared the night before is for nothing. 

Swallowing gulps of air, you kneel down and grab the empty rucksack used for shopping and press your lips firmly together, afraid you’ll scream at him if you say another word. You don’t need to check the pocket for credits-he keeps it full for you when you shop, and you ignore him when you stride across the room, determined to shut out that horrible, mean sound.

His hand, now gloved again, catches your elbow before you can make it to the threshold. “Where are you going?” The mirthless amusement is gone now, and now he makes demands.

You refuse to give him your gaze, staring resolutely at the wall. It is the one thing you have always worked to give, and now you withhold it as tightly, unflinchingly as you can. “Let me go, Din.” 

For one moment, you fear he won’t. You fear that every dark, creeping suspicion of men that has followed you like a hungry animal will culminate there, and you suck in a terrified breath when his fingers tighten before letting go completely. You force yourself not to recoil, knowing your face has already betrayed you with a grimace, your caution and distrust that you will later regret and mourn.

So you leave.

The curtain flutters behind you as you fumble your way through the door, focusing on the sound of your footsteps. Round, proper, never scuffing your shoes or dragging the heels. It irritated the Moff when you were young and newly blind and stumbling into everything, so his wife had taught you how to walk like a lady. Shoulders back, hands folded, chin demurely tucked. 

You are not moving as gracefully as you did then, only thinking of putting one foot in front of the other. You pass Mandalorians in the tunnels, many of their visors following you as the tears continue to paint your face and neck. You think you hear someone call your name, but you follow your way as far as the forge, stopping twice to ask strangers the way out.

It feels like fleeing.

When you reach the stairs that spiral upwards, you brace both hands on the dusty walls, carefully toeing your way up every ledge until a threadbare curtain is blown to the side, tickling your leg and spearing light across your face. You take a deep breath, dizziness washing through you, and you push yourself to walk outside.

The sun upon Nevarro is only bright in the evenings, and for that, you are grateful. The smog covered town around you bustles with the likes of crooks, bandits, and con men that enter through a large gate. You can taste grease and blaster residue in the air hanging heavy even though it’s dry from the desolate landscape. 

You hope that the open market will rid you of the trembling in your hands, the ache in your temples, but instead, it takes everything in you to collapse against the side of a building. The narrow alley you kneel in is wet in the shade, muddy puddles collecting rainbows of chemicals. As soon as the pristine, powder blue of your dress meets the filth of the ground, sobs break from your chest, threatening to open you there in the middle of town.

Once it begins, you cannot stop. You bite down on the meat of your fist, panting through the wracking wails of heartbreak. All you can hear is his laugh, over and over, and you think of the last time you cried so hard-abandoned, in the desert, alone and terrified. It is not dissimilar to how you feel now, that awful, grasping loneliness that had nearly broken you as a little girl.

You have only wished to hear him laugh since he called you part of his clan by the fire. Now, it makes you sick to think about it.

You replay the words spat in anger in your mind, slumping fully against the building and pressing your forehead against the dusty stone.  _ If it saved their life _ , he’d said.  _ If it would mean they would have a chance. _ Your father had hidden you beneath his bed, shielding you from the stormtroopers that broke down the door. He had not given you up without a fight, without every last ounce of strength he possessed. Your mother had resisted, to her end, and he knows that.

Din knows that, and spoke as if you couldn’t understand. As if he-

Your eyes open, slowly at first, encrusted with the brine of your tears and dropping your fist from the clench of your jaw. He spoke as if he  _ knew _ . 

A foundling, nearly slain by a battle droid, he’d said. 

His mother  _ was _ .

You bury your face into your palms, suddenly too overwhelmed to even sit up. You bow over yourself, breathing in the gravel and dirt beneath your body. The low moan that collapses in your chest hurts, and you think you must deserve it. He has never spoken of his parents, never spoken of his childhood, and now, you know, too. You  _ know _ .

Hand still clenched tight, you swing it, hitting the back of your fist against the building once, twice, until you’re throwing it with every ounce of contempt you feel beneath your gentleness. You wish you could hurt someone, truly throw your body against every force that has ever worked itself against you, against the Mandalorians, against the children that are as your own. 

Something internally chips within your hand on the last powerful swing of your arm, and you snatch your hand back against your chest, shoving yourself to your feet. Pain radiates up to your elbow, up to your shoulder, and you sink breathlessly back against the stone structure, gazing up unseeingly at the pale grey sky and finding black dots pricking your vision. You breathe, feeling the phantom touch of the Mandalorian press against your stomach. Pushing your muscles in and out, just as he taught you, breathing comes slow, winded from your anger, but once your heart begins to settle and the flush clears from your face, you find yourself standing solidly once again.

You try to straighten your hand, lengthening your fingers, and you hiss in pain when you cannot extend it fully. Shame bubbles inside you, and you feel nauseous knowing you will have to ask the Mandalorian for help. You know he won’t turn you away for that. He won’t laugh at your pain.

The small, weak knowledge is enough to propel you to take cautious steps from the alley. None of the market goers seem to be privy to your emotional collapse, and for that you are grateful, shouldering the bag on your arm and holding your hand protectively against your chest. You set your mind on something you can do in the moment, and remember the credits in your bag. Din had wanted to buy foodstuffs for the baby and for the children.

Nevarro does not have a wide selection. In fact, much of it looks questionable at best, and since you can’t trust your own close eyed inspection, you only accept things you know without a doubt are infallible. You find a vendor who gives you a good price for several jars of mashed fruits and vegetables that you think the baby will eat, and several packets of freeze dried meals and soups the children’s sensitive stomachs will be able to handle. Another seller offers you two loaves of bread with nuts, seeds, and fruit rinds that smell quite good, and you find the utterly detestable ration packs Din insists on keeping just in case.

The first time you offered to make something for the three of you to eat, he tried to convince you that a ration pack was enough. The questionably green slabs of meat made your stomach go sour, and between that and his story of the child eating frogs, you didn’t trust their judgment on what proper nutrition was after that. 

You catch yourself smiling at the memory, and you bite your lip, shaking your head. You start walking forward, only to suddenly stop and realize, with a wobbly sense of imbalance atop your still weakened legs, you’re unclear which direction you came from.

“Oh, no.”

The town isn’t especially decorated, nor is the architecture eye-catching enough for you to recall any structure to memory as you wander the streets, attempting to look as if you move with purpose. You suspect you don’t succeed. 

It’s when you find yourself in a back street that’s emptier than the others that you admit to yourself that you are well and truly turned around. It’s not as if you can stop any passerby and ask where the covert is located, knowing they remain hidden. You quell the rise in your pulse that threatens to send you into a panic.

The gate. The gate at the front of the town. Perhaps if someone can help you find your way back to it, at least, you’ll be able to find the hidden entrance once more. You’re wringing your hands together, shifting out of the way of the flow of foot traffic while you think when sure-footed boots crunch gravel and dirt beside you.

“Pardon the intrusion,” a deep, lofty voice draws you to look up. “I was just making my way home from the cantina, and I couldn’t help but notice how distressed you are.”

_ We can’t trust anyone we don’t know. _

Now that the sun is beginning its descent on the horizon, it is more difficult for you to make out the details around you. Swallowing hard, you grip the strap of your shopping back with a firm hold of your good hand, breathing from your belly. 

“I...I’m just looking for the gate.” 

“Oh!” The man sounds sincerely happy to be of help. You try to make out his shape, but in the dim shadows of the surrounding buildings, you feel like you’ve been blindfolded, only able to see partial outlines through gauzy fabric. “If you like, I can show you the way. I’m heading in that direction.”

You begin to shake. The scent of animal stables and the phantom tingling of blood loss in your limbs nearly brings tears to the corner of your eyes. You turn your face away, tightening your grip until your knuckles are white and the trembling subsides. Why did you come out by yourself? Din is right, you are a fool. The little voice in the back of your head taunts you, reminding you of your inability, your  _ disability _ , your poor judgment, your-

“Are you alright?” That deep voice makes you open your eyes, and you notice that you are holding your breath. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t make any movements toward you, and for some reason you can’t put a name to, you think of the Togruta. 

“I would be grateful, if you could show me to the gate, please,” you murmur, dipping your chin down. Your pride will fair, you think, if you can make it that far. 

“May I carry your bag for you?”

You angle your body away, clutching the strap that sits on your shoulder. “N-No. I have it.”

“Very well,” the man says, as if having expected this response. He walks with you, and you begin to follow along half a step behind, keeping him in your periphery. If he does make a move towards violence, you think you may have enough in your satchel that it would make a considerable weapon to knock someone away from you. 

You shut your eyes in mortification thinking of the blaster. Neither you nor Din had spoken of you carrying it with you after he’d taught you how to shoot it. The memory of how your target practice ended brings a glowing blush to both of your cheeks, and you tuck your chin further down, watching your steps carefully. You aren’t completely comfortable with the idea of carrying the weapon, but you realize how weak, how unprotected you are when you are alone without anything.

_ Fool of a woman _ . He’s always right.

“I have been on Nevarro for some time,” the man drawls, not seeming to realize your inner turmoil. He’s surveying the market as you both walk-you, regimented, proper, precise, and he with a meandering stroll. “I have never seen you before. To whom does our scenic little corner of the world owe the pleasure?” 

Swallowing, you hesitate for a moment. He has not been disingenuous with you so far. His bold tone of voice throws you off with its deep pitch, and his self-assuredness speaks of a man who is not usually questioned, but you feel no ill-will from him. You take a deep, calming breath and give him your name, eyes flickering up every few moments to make sure you won’t run into anyone or anyone, searching for familiarity. You wish to recognize something, anything to assure you that he is not leading you astray.

“A beautiful name,” he compliments, but you don’t thank him for it. Fear has robbed you of your manners, and you think once you are back in the covert, you will do well to never leave again. He goes on to speak more of Nevarro, of its sights and attractions, which are not of much interest to you. From what you can tell, the planet is rather a backwater rock, and Din mentioned it had firmly been within the control of the Empire. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth just being above ground.

When the gate comes into view, you feel such a surge of relief that your knees nearly buckle. 

Off to the side, hidden out of plain sight, you hear the gentle snap of fabric in the breeze, and you know where you need to go. Your escort comes to a stop and turns to hold out his hand. “It was a pleasure helping you find your way, Miss. Should you ever need anything, you can find me at the cantina here in town on most days,” he says. You hold out your hand, allowing him to shake it and flushing a bright pink when he instead chooses to kiss your fingers.

“T-Thank you,” you sputter, blinking with surprise.

You can see the whites of his teeth when he smiles and lets your hand go. “Simply ask for Greef Karga. And may your evening prove pleasant!”

The name leaves your ears ringing, even when he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd of market-goers. The vendors are slowly dissembling their stalls and packing their wares, and you lay a hand over your heart that races like it alone is launched into hyperdrive, abandoning the rest of you. 

The Mandalorian’s contact, technically his employer, happened to rescue you from the backend of Nevarro’s seediest district, and all you can feel is relief that Nevarro, for all of its shortcomings, is certainly turning out to be kinder than Cantonica.

You slip behind the curtain with all the grace of a spy, taking a few moments to move down the dusty stone steps and gather yourself. Anxiety has left you short of breath with knots in your stomach, and you don’t want to return to the children with such trembling in your hands. They were too observant by half, especially the youngest. You still remember the last time you and Din had a disagreement and how difficult it had been to calm the fussy baby.

When you make it into the tunnels, planting your feet firmly on the ground, you’re surprised to find the covert eerily empty. The remote canals stretch out before you, hollow and growing dark save for the lit torches and lanterns lining the walls. As you make your way through the labyrinth, slowing your pace so that you can focus on gathering your wits, you become aware of the distant clamor of shouting. Unease creeps across your skin like an insect, and you feel your mouth go dry. You are tempted to return to the quarters and retrieve the blaster pistol, but when the shouting swells in volume, you turn down the tunnel towards it, instead.

The path leads you to the alcove outside the forge, and you think every Mandalorian of the Tribe is gathered in a crowd. The air is thick, hot with the mass of bodies shouting. Some beat their armored chests while others throw fists in the air. You can’t make out what they are surrounding, but you do see the golden shine of the Armorer’s helm as she stands at the entry of her forge, a step above everyone else and away from the uproar. Her air is taciturn at best, overseeing the chaos, and you squeeze yourself between the feral warriors and the stone wall until you can step into the forge, too.

“What is going on?” You have to shout over the cacophony, tempted to cover your ears from the static, metallic sounds of vocoders filling the air. Her horns incline toward you, her helmet dipping with unspoken question. 

“A duel for territory.”

Your bag slips from your arm, and you turn to set it against the wall of the forge. What you find stops you cold, a sudden discernment dawning when you find the amban rifle leaning against the wall. You turn back to find the Armorer gazing at you, and you drop the bag. You can’t see beyond the mass of armor, the throng of warriors shouting and yelling in Mando’a. But as you listen closer, you hear it-the heavy, meaty landings of fists and bootfalls.

“For territory?” you croak, feeling lightheaded, weak.

“For ownership,” she intones, crossing her arms beneath her chest and turning back towards her Tribe calling for blood. “Of your clan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations
> 
> Aliit ori'shya tal'din - Family is more than blood.


	6. You Did Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian faces his challenger, and you receive help with nursing his wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the last chapter's cliffhanger.  
> Unfortunately, this chapter also has a bit of a cliffhanger.  
> Luckily it's not as tense or dramatic as the previous one, though!  
> (Maybe?)

“A duel of territory is until first blood is drawn,” the Armorer says, reaching out to grasp your arm when you sway dangerously backwards. She smells of heat and spices and citrus, and you breathe deeply through your nose to focus on her voice, her firm grip, and the buttery leather of her gloves rather than the rushing of blood in your ears. “To prove who is strong enough to take such responsibility of the clan being warred over.” 

“I-I don’t-”

You couldn’t hear anything over the sound of your own pulse pounding between your temples, beating like the gloved fists against beskar, the static crackling electrically in the air. A panic, fierce and clawing its way inside your chest threatens to overtake you, to choke you, and you can’t breathe. You desperately gasp for air, raggedly drinking in the heat of the bodies and the yelling and the hunger, but nothing can tame the burning in your chest. Suddenly the dust in the tunnels suffocate you, the cold burns your nose, and there are tears in your eyes that feel as if they’ve been born from a memory, one where your neck held the imprint of an owner, and you had no one to call your own.

Without considering the options, you shove yourself into the throng of warriors, slamming your shoulder into a pauldron and elbowing away a vambrace. They don’t even stumble in the wake of your insistence, but it doesn’t stop you from making space for yourself, pushing your way in. You have to use both hands to get around one Mandalorian, your injured hand flaring with heat that feels subdued beneath the surge of adrenaline pumping in your body until you practically hum with it.

When you get to the front, pressing between two female Mandalorians, you might as well be made of the stone that makes the walls of the covert, the floors, the ceilings. You feel like a piece of the architecture, just as useful and effective in stopping what happens in front of your eyes.

Kneeling in the center of the open berth of the crowd, Din’s entire body heaves with rattling air, dragging it through his helmet as if it takes every vestige of power he possesses. One of his vambraces has been torn from his arm, and the pauldron, too. His left arm hangs limply, cradled against his body with the other, and even with your impaired vision, you see the lopsided joint where it’s been dislocated. His head hangs forward as if-

As if he’s giving up.

The challenger circles with a proud, cocksure stride that turns your stomach. He is at least a head taller than Din with thick, robust muscles that move beneath midnight blue armor with the dullness of having seen battle. When he moves behind your Mandalorian, his deep, bellowing voice echoes from within his helmet more than through the vocoder. 

“Still weak on your left side, Djarin?”

The warrior’s hand is huge, and it strikes out to grab the lip of Din’s helmet from the left. He jerks upward, and your heart drops when you realize he means to uncover his face.

“No!”

To throw yourself forward is a reflex, but the two iron strong hands that grab your upper arms haul you back against a strong, beskar chest plate. At the same time, Din’s helmet seems to rattle on his skull, waking him from a catatonic daze when he hears your voice, and he bucks against his challenger’s hold. The leather glove slips from his helmet, and they grapple with each other until the larger Mandalorian grabs Din by the back of his neck, lifting him high enough that his boots kick out, before slamming him down into the ground. The ring of steel against stone is ear-splitting, so visceral you feel it within your chest. It  _ hurts _ .

Din doesn’t move immediately, but you can hear a low, rattling groan from beneath his armor. His gloved fingers curl against the ground, grasping for something unseen.

“ _ Cuyir ibic te dala? _ ” laughs the armored giant, pointing his finger towards you as you’re held by the strong arm of another. He prowls around the fallen warrior, inclining his helmet downward to watch his opponent struggle. When Din pushes himself up onto his good hand and his knees, the Mandalorian swings his heavy boot and lands it into Din’s side, much to the zealous shouts of the Tribe surrounding them. It’s nothing compared to the grating taunt of the deep bass the warrior throws at the man you love. “ _ Cuyir ibic tion'ad gar kar’taylir? _ ” 

But you find quickly the fight is evenly matched, no matter the size difference. Din suddenly rolls to the side upon his useless arm, throwing his boot out to crack against the other warrior’s knee. The man buckles, falling heavily to the ground, and Din takes the opportunity to climb to his feet. His helmet turns on you, gleaming and scuffed, and he yells so loud his throat scratches, rasps with the gutteral sound of Mando’a. “ _ Hiibir kaysh be'chaaj _ !”

The large, unrelenting hands on your arms suddenly lift you backwards, and you fight against the handling. “Let me go-!”

Rhalaz doesn’t even stumble from your pitiful attempts, shaking you gently. “You shouldn’t be here,” he yells over the noise, drawing you backward into the sea of armored bodies that close together like huge, overarching doors. He lifts you up from underneath your arms, swinging you towards the forge just as a terrible, ringing clash of metal echoes through the tunnel. It is followed by a roar of the warriors, and you stumble away as Rhalaz sets you down. The Armorer reaches a hand out to help steady you again, and you whirl around, desperate to see anything.

“Who is that? Who is he fighting?” You have to raise your voice to be heard, and you feel Rhalaz hover beside you with worry.

“Paz Vizla,” the Armorer answers, her mystical voice somehow not needing to project to be heard. The name means nothing to you, gives you no comfort or reassurance. “He is of a powerful house of Mandalore-”

“-and the strongest in the Tribe,” Rhalaz mutters, sounding like he wishes to spit.

“I-I don’t understand-!” When more shouting erupts, your hands fly to cradle your head. The vibrations between your temples threaten to drive you to tears. You feel yourself shaking with the reverberations, the overwhelming reality that everything you have found and come to know could be taken. 

The Armorer grips your elbow and gives you a hard shake that knocks your teeth together, but it successfully yanks you back into the present. “If Vizla prevails, he will accept ownership of responsibility for your clan,” she says, her words firm, resolute. You blink into the golden sheen of her helmet, mouth opening and closing. “And Djarin’s loss results in relinquishing such rights.” 

Over the yells of his brothers and sisters in arms, Paz Vizla’s mockery rings against the stone walls, bouncing off the beskar that is beaten in encouragement. “You’ve always been a coward, Djarin,” he growls, and it’s the gut-wrenching, rasping whimper that ignites you again. Rhalaz doesn’t have time to grab hold of you, and you slip beneath his arms faster than a deer, your hands landing on their target. 

This time, when you shove your way to the front of the mob, you don’t hesitate, and you are given a wider berth when you step into the circle of warriors.

Din is on his back, the challenger’s boot pressing down on his injured shoulder. Paz Vizla inclines his helm upward, seeming to realize the cheers that drove him in his beating have died away. When the glass of his visor settles upon you, your hands steady the amban rifle, bracing the stock firmly against your shoulder as Briinx had shown you. The well oiled steel barely shakes, though you feel like you could drop it from how your injured hand pains you to grip the floor plate.

“ _ Meg cuyir ibic? _ ” Vizla asks, his voice holding mirth as he takes you in. “A big gun for a little girl.”

Din’s helmet scrapes against the stone where he’s pinned, angling his own visor backward to see you. His body shakes with every heaving breath. Paz bears his weight down, and you can hear the bones grinding together over Din yelling through gritted, bared teeth against the modulator.

Your fingers slide up the forestock and find the bolt switch, shoving it upward with your thumb. Immediately, violent, violet electricity sparks and crackles along the pronged barrel’s end, and every warrior in the covert draws backward from you as far as they can.

“D-Did you know that steel is an excellent conductor for electricity?” you ask, your voice trembling with fear, but fierce with your anger, too. You shoulder the rifle, stepping forward and feeling a rush of adrenaline when the hulking Mandalorian removes his boot from your lover’s shoulder, parrying by stepping backward. Slowly, he raises his own gloves upward in a sign of deference, and you squint along the rear sight of the barrel. “I wonder h-how well your beskar would hold up against it.”

The tunnel has grown so quiet that you think you can hear the wind blowing somewhere above ground. Your own breathing has your chest heaving, but you focus on the phantom touch of Din’s palm pressing against your abdomen. You slowly exhale through your lips, feeling a tiny trickle of perspiration down the back of your neck, over the hidden scar you keep to yourself.

“This is a fair and just fight,” Paz Vizla intones, his deep voice holding no petulance or grief but strong with conviction. He keeps his hands where you can see them, even with your weak sight. His words ring devoid of malicious intent, but they do no less to calm your wrath. “In the name of protecting you and your clan.” 

With practiced swiftness, your injured hand screams and racks the rifle, charging the bolt of electricity so it sparks from the end of the prongs, and you bear your teeth. “Do I look like I need protecting?”

You think you can hear the conjoined, racing pulses of every fearless Mandalorian within the covert, and you don’t miss the way Paz Vizla’s fingers twitch within his gloves. He swallows audibly.

“You do not.”

“Then yield.” 

The murmurs of surrounding warriors make the hairs on the back of your neck rise, but you don’t let your eyes wander from the Mandalorian in your sight, armored like a night sky. The warrior tilts his chin downward as if facing down the mudhorn you have heard so many tales of, and you worry, in part, that you will have to kill this man whose name you don’t know and face you’ve never seen. You don’t wish to spill blood, to hurt any creature, but you know that you will pull the trigger for the man you love and the children you call your own.

“You have the advantage,  _ buir’ika _ ,” Paz says, carefully taking a step away from Din as he struggles to roll onto his uninjured arm, heaving for air with a death rattling breath. “We agreed to bar weapons in this fight.”

“I didn’t make such an agreement.” 

Perhaps it is the lack of hesitation in your voice, or the surge of courage that falls from you in waves, but Paz Vizla flexes his fingers once more, keeping his hands high and splayed in civility. He inclines his helmet, and your heart races, threatening to break the rattling cage of your body, until he slowly drops to both knees in submission.

There is a deafening uproar of the surrounding warriors, many of them shouting in dissent while others cheer with accord. Several warriors charge up to the Armorer for judgment, but you don’t hesitate, yanking the bolt switch shut to kill the electrical current before tossing the rifle over your shoulder by its strap. You run towards Din, who’s entire frame shakes with his breathing, with the effort to hold himself up, and you slip your arm beneath his good shoulder.

His voice is hoarse, cracking on your name so softly that it brings tears to your eyes, but you ignore him and push every ounce of strength you have into the stone beneath your feet to lift him. You stumble, your adrenaline only doing so much for your balance, but you’re both caught by the unshakable hold of Rhalaz once again. He nearly picks Din up just by one arm and grunts, “Show me where to take him.”

The three of you move through the crowd with resolution, and you wonder if the lack of resistance you are met with is because you still shoulder the amban rifle. Rhalaz is unflappable in the face of carrying Din’s weight, and you only stop once when Din cries out, his shoulder twisting unnaturally in your haste. You make out Rhalaz’s voice through his vocoder, but you don’t hear what exactly he says. Your mind is racing, your body moving without being told and thinking only of finding somewhere, someplace safe. 

When you throw the curtain back, your heart stops at the sight of Corde and Venka playing with the baby on the floor, the three of them rolling the familiar shiny durasteel ball between them. They look up at your entrance, all of them scrambling forward with giggles and smiles. Their innocence of the violence and anger you’ve witnessed is mindnumbing, and you have to grab the baby up, using your free arm to herd the two siblings backward so Rhalaz can bring Din inside.

Immediately, all three little ones go silent until Corde yanks against your hold, fighting you as fiercely as you fought Rhalaz. “W-What’s wrong with him!” she cries, beginning to hiccup. 

“I need you to stay here,” you whisper, breathless and shaking as you force them to sit upon their cushioned pallet in the vestibule. All of you flinch when Din yells with pain, and Venka’s eyes well with tears. You pet his hair, kissing the baby’s furry head whose large inky eyes turn misty, his ears dropping in shared anguish. “It’s alright-he’s going to be alright, but you have to stay here and let us help him.” 

Setting the baby between the two children, you lean the rifle against the wall and run to Din’s rucksack. Rhalaz is busy removing his comrade’s armor, and you grab every article of medical equipment Din brought with you, dumping it on the bed beside his hip. It’s woefully light, you think, kneeling next to him, your face pinching with the stress of how terrible his breathing sounds.

“Briinx has medkits in the armory,” Rhalaz says, removing the last of Din’s cuirass and laying it aside. “I’ll go get it, just keep him awake.” 

You want to beg him to stay, to not leave the two of you alone when you’re both so weak, but you can’t find the air with which to speak. Din’s helmet sinks forward until it rests upon your shoulder, and you turn towards him, your own body beginning to tremble without your consent. “T-Tell me what t-to do,” you whisper, slipping your arm around his middle and cradling him against your body. “You have to tell me what to do.”

Without his beskar, save for his helmet, he looks like any other man. Firm in places, soft in others, and suddenly so vulnerable that you want to cry. But his glove grabs your knee with a firm hold, and you can feel the shaking determination all the way up his arm. “Get-Get a cloth, a sheet-something that won’t tear.” 

It takes you a minute to register exactly what he says, but when you do, you’re on your feet, rushing through the quarters until you find several different things. You bring back a towel, a blanket, and a tunic you’d packed for yourself. “Will any of these do?”

He’s panting, leaning on his good arm to keep from falling over, and you’re worried he’ll pass out before he can tell you what to do next. He nods towards your hand that holds the dark orange silk of the tunic and you toss the other two articles aside. He shifts forward grunting with the pain of effort. “Loop it under my arm and hold the ends up with both hands.”

You comply, fumbling to keep ahold of the silk. It crosses your mind that it’s made of the fabric he’d gifted you, and you almost feel angry at the thought. Angry that you should think of such a thing now when you should be focusing on keeping him coherent. “N-Now what?” you ask, holding the ends upward, unsure what he intends.

“Now you have to pull it up hard. Get the bone back in the socket.”

Horror washes over you, and bile stings the back of your throat. “I-I can’t do that!”

His helmet shines when it angles upward to look at you, and his voice is a wet huff when he chuckles. “I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do,  _ cyar’ika _ .” 

“I’ll hurt you, I-I don’t want to hurt you,” you whimper, staring down at his arm that hangs in such a horrible way. It’s too still.

“You won’t. Just do it-don’t hesitate. Quick and hard.” 

Tears spill over the apples of your cheeks, and you close your eyes to breathe. It’s so difficult getting air in your lungs, so hard to know that the three children just a few feet away are crying with you, terrified of seeing something this gruesome befall their protector. A warm glove rests on your waist, and you look down to see his helmet once more tilting up into your face. “You can do this,” Din rasps, his voice roughened by pain.

_ He’s always been right so far. _

Wrapping the edges of the silk around your hands, you nod and take a deep breath from your belly. He bows his head and breathes himself, and you count in your mind. One, two, three-

You use all the power from your legs and lift up with a hard, short pull. You can’t hear it, but you can feel the bone slip back into place. Din makes a noise unlike anything you’ve ever heard, a hoarse whimper bared through teeth, and his right fist slams against the cushion, the heels of his boots scraping against the floor.

“I’m-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you cry, dropping the tunic and kneeling on the bed again. Din sobs through the vocoder, but he shakes his head, resting his good elbow on his knee and holding the brow of his helm. He’s heaving for breath, and you wish he would take his helmet off just so he could breathe better.

“Y-You did well, _Cyare_ ,” he whispers, and it’s all you can do not to fall against his side. “You did so well.”

You want to ask what to do next, but a hollow, metallic ringing comes from the door to your quarters. After several silent beats, the curtain is thrown back, and Paz Vizla steps through the threshold.

Having seen the Mandalorian dress and secure his weapons, you are well acquainted with where he keeps his weapons, and you know his vibroblade rests in the sheath of his boot. Fear disguised as boldness has you unsheathing it at the same time you stand up. You are not an intimidating force, you’re sure, hair falling from its place, dress wrinkled, crying, trembling too much to keep the knife steady. 

Tilting his helmet to the side, Paz considers your form, but before you can do anything, he takes one large stride forward and grabs your wrist, the other hand yanking the knife out of your grip...before readjusting your hold on it.

“If you want to do damage to someone like me,” he says, his voice slow and deep like a thick, sugary syrup. “You should brace your arm like this. You could go for the neck, if you’re fast enough, but you’d do well to go for the hip. It’ll bleed just as well, and you’re shorter,” he chuckles.

Your ears ring at the sound of his laugh, a companionable, almost friendly song. It’s only then you realize he’s carrying a bag on one arm, and steps around you to take a knee beside your Mandalorian. He opens it and pulls out a long, folded cloth. “You’re getting old and slow, Djarin.” 

Your confusion is amplified when Din huffs with vague amusement, and you only then lower the vibroblade. “W-What...I don’t understand,” you say, feeling dizzy.

Paz unfolds the cloth he’s retrieved and gestures with a tilt of his head. “Come here,  _ buir’ika _ . He needs this wrapped around him. Pretty sure I broke a rib or two.”

“Or three,” Din wheezes, much to Paz’s continued amusement.

You approach with caution, kneeling back beside Din on the bed. Paz passes you the blanket, but all you can do is stare at him in wonder. He drops it into your lap before grabbing the hem of Din’s shirt and pulling it up without ceremony. It shocks you, seeing anyone handle the Mandalorian this way, but you’re already reeling so much that you don’t question it. His abdomen is splotched with red contusions, and you grimace at the sight, knowing they will soon fade to blue, to purple, to black. 

“Come on,” Paz grunts at you, nodding his head. “Wrap it around him before he bleeds out.”

The words knock you from your stupor, and you unfold the cloth, slowly and carefully wrapping it around Din’s middle. It’s shorter than you realize, but it folds around him three times. Paz instructs you to secure it as tight as you can, and the fabric molds to itself without needing to be pinned. It feels almost warm, almost like water, the texture silky but thick.

“What is this?”

“A healing sheath,” Paz mutters, looking back into his bag while you gently lower Din’s tunic back down, tucking it with care. “It’ll keep his ribs from puncturing anything and help them mend.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, and soon all of the adrenaline begins to seep from your system. You’re afraid you’ll fall over, pass out, faint, even, and you have to brace yourself with your hand on Din’s thigh to keep yourself steady.

“W-Why are you helping us?”

Paz goes still, looking up at you before his helmet tilts toward your Mandalorian’s visor. “You...didn’t tell her?” he asks, incredulous. 

Din seems to be too focused on breathing to react suitably. It isn’t as shaky now, it doesn’t rattle the way it did, but his voice is thin from strain when he sighs, “I was going to.” 

Your pale eyes flicker between the two warriors, resting a hand on your stomach that feels suddenly sour. You watch as Paz stands, an ungraceful lumber, and clenches his hands into fists at his sides before he takes a deep breath. “Then I’ll wait until you do.” He sounds...upset. Angry. His cobalt helm turns towards you, the glass of his visor not nearly as shiny as what you’re used to facing. “Rhalaz gave me these supplies to bring to you. He said there is enough to tend to him.” He bows his head, which makes your heart flip with an anxious confusion, before he turns and stomps out of the room, the curtain falling heavy behind him.

When you and Din are finally alone, you turn towards him, unsure of where to even begin. Questions race through your mind so quickly, piling up like the stones upon a grave to keep out ghosts, and you’re left feeling weary. You part your lips several times in an attempt to speak, to beg or plead or insist upon explanations, but you feel adrift in an ocean without having learned how to swim.

It’s the warm, liquor rich baritone that becomes an anchor for you.

“You don’t have to…” Din gestures to the bag of medical supplies, his breath hitching when he tries to shift forward.

Annoyance sprouts at the back of your throat, and you stand, picking up the rucksack. You frown, muttering, “You can hardly sit up. I’m not letting you try to stick yourself with needles or apply bacta.” You set it upon the table before turning to him, hands on your hips. “Can you lay down?”

He hesitates before shaking his helmet cautiously. Witholding a sigh, you nod and step close, supporting his back as you help him ease his body backward against the cushions as flat as possible. The healing sheath will keep his ribs from causing him pain, but you don’t think propping him up will help. Once he’s flat, you sit beside his hip, drawing the bag into your lap to sort through the contents.

You can feel him watching you, even if he doesn’t make it obvious. When he says your name, you have to close your eyes against the onslaught of emotion, of shock. Not  _ Cyare _ , not  _ Mesh’la _ . Your name.

“You are not obligated to do anything.” You turn your eyes upon his helmet, find his shiny visor gazing up at the ceiling. His breathing stutters, labors to stay controlled and even, and you think he doesn’t struggle with the words but with keeping them all from falling out together at the same time. “I do not deserve your help. I-I acted without honor.”

Once, you may have rushed to assure him otherwise, only wishing to cool tempers and soothe hurt feelings, but your tongue stays silent, eyes gazing upon the gleam of beskar in the lantern light. It would be disrespectful to both of you to not allow apologies, to refuse his regret. 

Truthfully, your argument seems so distant now, so miniscule and pitiful in the face of nearly losing everything, losing him. You sniffle, looking down at the batca patch, the shot of anaesthetic, the gauze. “Is that why you were challenged by Paz Vizla?” you question softly, turning your eyes back towards him. His helmet is angled toward you now. “Is that why he dueled you?”

You can see the dip of his throat when he swallows. “No.” He rests his gloved hands on his abdomen, seeming to attempt to compose himself. “I challenged him.” 

You didn’t think you could feel much beyond exhaustion, but the truth knocks the breath from you. Gripping the syringe nearly until the crystal barrel cracks, your eyes widen, staring at him with a pale, ashen face. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, a plea against your ringing ears. You hate how much you’ve said those words today.

For a moment, Din goes so still and so quiet you think he may have fallen unconscious. But he rolls his helmet to look at the ceiling again, and you see the uneven rise and fall of his chest as he still attempts to gain control of his breathing. “Last night, I asked you a question, and you agreed. Do you remember?”

A hot, humid flush warms your face, and you hesitate. Your memories of the night before in the very bed you sit upon are stronger now, recalling lips and hands, sweat and skin. You remember your nightmare, clutching your child to protect him from the unforgiving fall against slain warriors of Mandalore. 

“I asked if you would stay here,” Din prompts with a gentle tone, so tender it breaks your heart. “If you would stay here in the covert with the children while I hunt down the bounty I gained from Greef Karga. You agreed, but...I think you fell asleep.”

Your ears are ringing, and you’re not sure why. You relax your fingers from around the syringe, laying the supplies carefully on the bed beside his hip. “I never would have agreed to that,” you tell him, firm with conviction and blinking salt from your eyes. “Not if I’d...been awake.”

His voice pitches just slightly, curious and wondering. “What did you think I asked?”

Ignoring the question by attempting to quell the aching pound of your heart beating against your breast, you look into the rucksack for more gauze. “I won’t be left behind,” you whisper, voice cracking with your insistence. “Not for any bounty, I-I won’t allow it.” 

“It’s too dangerous for you to come with me,” he whispers, his voice so, so soft. Softer than the way he touched you or how he kissed you. Softer than his hair or the sound of him saying your name in pleasure.

“Then why take it!” Your own voice is hoarse when the exclamation breaks from your mouth, the bag falling out of your lap when you jerk to face him. You feel like you could hit the wall again, but the dull throbbing in your hand keeps you in your place. “If it is so dangerous, why are you risking yourself this way? Risking what we have?”

His next words steal your anger out from under you. “Because it will protect the child.” His helmet looks back at you, and you can see his breathing pick up. “Greef Karga has made a deal on my behalf. If I can capture and return this bounty, my sin of taking the child will be forgiven. The Empire will leave us alone.” 

Your eyes fall closed against the swell of heartache threatening to overturn you completely. Once more, you both are pawns of bloodthirsty men, and you want to fall apart. You rest your hand against your brow, biting your lip to keep from crying. It’s easy to forget the threat of danger being so close, holding the children safe and feeling the Mandalorian’s protection guard you all while you sleep.

Din swallows hard, and you can hear it this time as if he wishes he didn’t have to continue. “There’s a chance...if I find him, I may not come back,” he mutters, his breath pulling when your hand reaches out to grip his glove. So tight you fear you may hurt him. He waits until you can’t hold on so tight, until the joints in your delicate hand creak as they loosen. “And I could not leave you alone, would not...not leave you unprotected.”

You realize, sluggishly, what his intentions are, and you open your watery eyes. “Paz Vizla.” 

“He is the strongest warrior in the Tribe,” Din murmurs, sounding both bitterly begrudging and admiring. “He will protect you and the children with his life should I not come back. He’s sworn it.” 

Your chin wobbles with keeping in everything, your lips sealed against the overwhelming desire to hit and kiss and yell and hold. You lean forward, resting your uninjured hand upon the pallet near his helmet, hovering over him. When one of your tears escapes, rolling across the shined steel beneath you, Din reaches up to brush the wetness from your cheek, simply watching you.

“I have made you cry beyond what I would allow,” he whispers, letting you grab his hand and tug his gloves off. You bring his hand to your cheek, turning your lips into his palm to kiss his leather scented skin. His voice lowers impossibly, until you have to strain your ears to hear him as he whispers, fervent and shaking, “I am sorry,  _ ner cyare _ . I am, I-” His fingers curl, cupping your cheek while you let your tears fall in the silence, and you know he is in more pain now than he was before. “I should have never spoken that way to you, never...never taken out so much of my own pain on the one I trust.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whisper back, holding his hand against your flushed cheek and gazing down at his visor. You lean gently to the side, careful not to put pressure on his injuries. “Your...mother-” His fingers twitch against your cheek, but you hold his hand where it is. You both opened this door, and now you will walk through it. “Your parents? They died, and you were next.” 

He is silent in the face of the truth, giving you a simple, slow nod. You hold your injured hand against the curve of beskar where his own cheek would be, the cool steel feeling forgiving against your hand, and you can’t keep the gentle smile from your lips. “Sacrifice is not abandonment, Din Djarin. There is only nobility in what they did for you,” you lean forward, shaking from the emotions that sweep through you in circles. Pain and relief, discord and absolution. You press your lips to his beskar brow and lean your own against his helmet. “I would have been honored to know them, just as I am you.”

His right arm slips around your waist, and several of the medical supplies clatter to the floor as you allow him to pull you down upon the bed in a tight embrace. You press your face into his neck, your own arms slipping carefully around his middle, saying nothing as he shakes and trembles in your arms. You have never seen a man cry before, never known what it is like, and there is something so humbling, so heartbreaking that he should break over your quiet words of forgiveness. Ever since you’ve come to know him, you have learned more of the man beneath the armor from what he does rather than what he says. You don’t know why this means so much more to you.

You rest your hand on the other side of his neck, allowing his tears to paint his face beneath his helmet without bringing light to it. Somehow, it would be rude, you think, and you wait until they slow to a stop. “I forgive you of your cruelty,” you whisper, slowly lifting yourself up on your elbow. “If you will forgive me for my foolishness.”

The noise he makes is a scoff that cracks, and he lays his hand over your waist. “You are no fool and I have been wrong to say it,” he mutters, voice full of self-loathing. “You are the only person I hold within myself.” His thumb trails upward to brush your cheek, and you turn your face to kiss his hand once more. 

“Then do not leave me here. Don’t leave me without you.” 

He doesn’t say anything, and you know there will be more to speak of when you both have the strength for it. You don’t know if you can blame him for the way he feels now that you’ve held a man at gunpoint. You think you must understand the lengths someone will go to, now, for those they love, for you’d do it again and hesitate less.

It’s when the hand that touches the side of his neck comes away, wet with blood that you sit up suddenly, gasping, but he makes a quiet, assuring noise. “Split lip,” he mumbles, grunting as he shifts. “A few...cuts beneath the beskar.” 

You look at your hand, the small smear of crimson burning under the golden lantern. “I thought the duel was until first blood was drawn?” you ask softly, glancing between your palm and his visor.

He rumbles, pressing his helmet back against the pillow to stretch a little. “Had to give Vizla a fight,” he grumbles, practically glaring up at the ceiling. “I wouldn’t...give you up easily.”

Reaching down, you find the gauze and bacta spray, your heart beating heavily. You hesitate as you look down at him. “Should I leave you to it?” you ask, uncertain and nervous, offering the supplies to tend his face. You did want to check on the children, sure they have fallen asleep by now, but something in the way his fingers flex across his chest makes you pause.

“No,” he breathes. “It’s your right to see.” He cups your wrist, more tender than you expect without the glove, and he leads your fingers to the lip of his helmet. “Go on.” 

A blind fear begins to bubble in your chest, furious and fluttering, and you grip the steel with white knuckled fingers. “But-but you said only a wife could-”

“Yes. I did.” A quiet beat between you, and you are sure your hearts match in pace. “So, it is your right. This is the way.” 

The silence between you is humid, humming and heated, and this is as much of a challenge as a duel between Mandalorians only with more at stake, more to fear, more to want. Inherently you know that this moment will twine your lives together beyond anything you could understand, beyond a promise or a ring or a kiss. You feel your heart beating like a drum for war when your other hand comes to balance the other side of the Mandalorian helm. But you think this time, this particular moment, you and your challenge are evenly matched.

And so, you remove his helmet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> Cuyir ibic te dala? - Is this the woman?
> 
> Cuyir ibic tion'ad gar kar’taylir? - Is this the one you love?
> 
> Hiibir kaysh be'chaaj! - Take her away!
> 
> Meg cuyir ibic? - What's this?
> 
> Buir’ika - Little mother
> 
> Cyar’ika - Sweetheart, darling
> 
> Cyare - Beloved
> 
> Mesh’la - Beautiful


	7. Are You Blushing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You see the Mandalorian's face for the first time, and he shares some of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every reader, commentator, and supporter! I could not have gotten this far without you.
> 
> Also yes, I know I keep adding chapters to this. But I am pretty sure it should end with 8. Possibly 9.  
> I can't keep my mouth shut.

Appearances do not hold value to you beyond being clean and put together. You have never put stock into your own looks, largely due in part because you aren’t able to see your reflection, but you make a conscious effort to keep yourself well groomed. Hair brushed to smoothness, skin washed and clean, nails trimmed, and clothes hemmed or altered as needed. Once, when you were still a girl, you remember the Moff’s wife letting you look upon her vanity. Crystal bottles of sunset colors held perfumes, gleaming tubes with different shades of rouge and lip paint, and a golden dome that held a finely milled powder. She’d bounced the puff on your nose until the both of you giggled.

That was the last time you could truly remember seeing your own reflection. Now, with your weakened sight, any mirror only becomes a blur, too mottled to make anything out, so you settle for the basics and accept it is your best.

But without his helmet in the light of the lanterns, you see Din Djarin’s face, and you think him beautiful. 

You had never imagined what he might look like beneath his helm, had never suspected you would be privileged enough to see beneath. It is understood as Creed that he should keep it hidden, and you accept it as if it is your own value, too. Now as you look upon his face, you can’t quite discern every feature as clearly as you wish, but you cannot deny the skip in your heart. You can see the curl of his darkened hair and the matching facial hair that always tickles when he kisses you. You had seen a peek of the ochre of his skin, a beautiful gold that was hidden beneath layers of leather and steel like cherished treasure. Eyes are dark, coal and that’s been burnished by flame, and you think it fitting that his child has such large, inky eyes of his own-even if they are not bound by blood. 

The most surprising thing, though, is how clearly you can see his  _ expressions _ .

His helmet rests in your lap as you lean closer, biting your lip, and his eyebrows lower with hesitation, with uncertainty. “What is it?” he rasps, and you experience a full body shiver at the crystal clarity of his voice. Rough, deep, and burnished, too.

“Can...that is, may I…?” You hold your hand toward him, and he understands with a flicker of recognition in his dark eyes that calms your nerves. He nods, wordless and wondering, and he watches as you carefully wipe your hands before you trace the back of your fingers along his cheek. You have felt his face before, of course, between kisses. You’ve had his mouth on your body in all manner of curves and slopes, but being able to look upon him, to see his eyes flutter, his lashes kissing his cheek when you smooth the back of your hand across warm skin, it’s unlike anything you’ve felt before.

But the closer you look, you find his split lip dripping blood down his chin, and there is a deep, jagged cut across the top of his eyebrow that has spilled crimson into his eye, curving down the left side of his face. It’s begun to dry, and you gather some gauze after soaking it with the bacta spray and whisper for him to be still.

His eyes open, watching your own face as you begin to clean the blood and sweat from his skin, finding tender bruises and deeper abrasions. You shake your head when you press the gauze to the cut, having disturbed it enough to reopen. “I would think that helm would keep this from happening,” you murmur, lifting your other hand to brush hair from his forehead.

Din’s eyes blink up at you, and he seems just as enthralled to look upon your face without a barrier as you are to look at him. “Enough force will damage anything,” he murmurs, wincing when you remove the gauze to unfold and refold it, applying more of the solution. You pat the fresh blood away, applying gentle pressure on his brow. “I’ve seen Mandalorians lose teeth in their helmets.”

You swallow hard, shaking your head again. “Is this what Paz Vizla meant about your left side being weak?” you ask curiously, your voice lighter than you expect. You remember the heart-stopping moments where the warrior seemed to throw Din about like a rag-doll, and you wish you could forget it.

Dark eyes widen, and he tries to shift, only to grimace with pain when his abdomen twinges in protest. You rest your own injured hand upon his chest, cooing softly as you move down to clean the blood from his chin. “N-No,” he mumbles, his voice muffled slightly from the gauze. “Injury from my youth.” 

When his face is clean, you dispose of the gauze and select the cooling analgesic salve, your fingers brushing over his brow to find where the cut begins. You dab the gel with gentle fingers. “What injury?”

Din’s cheeks heat beneath you so much you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He grunts, unhappy and perhaps even a little shy from what you can see, and you feel almost high at being able to drink in so much of his expressions. How could someone so taciturn be so emotive? You never would have thought it before, but you suspect he is used to being able to hide such things behind the beskar.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you say quietly, smiling with a reassurance you hope he can feel. When you’ve finished the cut above his brow, you move down to his split lip. His hand catches your fingers just before you can apply the medicine, pausing him from speaking.

“It was a long time ago,” he mutters, drawing your hand to rest against his chest. You feel his breathing, his heartbeat, and you nod, remaining collected and politely curious. “I worked with a group of...mercenaries.” He says the word as if it’s foul, like a curse, and you blink with surprise. He looks away from you, and the flush does not leave his face. “Thugs, even.”

“I would have never guessed that,” you tell him honestly, but you’re smiling at the idea of a young Din Djarin, svelte and high on his talents as a warrior. You think he would be a little more reckless then. “Why would you partner with people like that?”

He takes a deep breath that you can feel reaches his belly, and you tilt your head when he glares at the ceiling. “Because I wasn’t a good man,” he finally says, voice tight and thin. He looks at you, meeting your gaze, and when you realize his unflinching expression of hope is imploring you, the air leaves your lungs. “Perhaps I’m still not. Sometimes...I think I deserved it.”

“To be hurt? No one deserves that,” you say quietly, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “No matter what you did then, it’s…” You struggle, feeling clumsy and naive to speak to a man your senior, with so much experience and knowledge that it leaves you feeling like a fumbling girl. “What you choose to do now is more important.”

You think you can see a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, and he holds your hand more securely. “If I had met you then,” he whispers. “Perhaps it would be different. Perhaps I’d-” He stops, and you shake his hand gently. 

“Din?” 

You tilt your head when he sighs, looking at your knees. “I...may have led someone on who had feelings for me,” he finally admits, and you didn’t think you could be more surprised than that until he adds, “She didn’t take it well.” 

“And...she’s the one who injured you?”

He nods, pursing his lips. “Set off a flash grenade in my room while I was asleep.” 

Horror overwhelms you, and your mouth drops open, eyes widening like saucers. You can recall the ear-splitting detonation he set off in the stables on Cantonica, and the sound being put in a metal vacuum makes your skin crawl. He frowns in frustration, sighing harshly. “It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it wasn’t on the ship. The sound reverberating from the metal was beyond anything I’ve felt.” 

It takes you a long few moments to gather your thoughts, attempting to wrap your mind around the idea of doing something so cruel to another person. To someone you claimed to have feelings for. “What...what happened after that?” you whisper, frowning when you see fresh blood pool from the cut on his lip. He won’t relinquish your other hand, so you grab clean gauze and dab at his mouth with your other.

When you finish, he shrugs against the cushion he lays on, his eyes watching your face. “I had head pain for days. Left the group and found myself on Coruscant with some back alley doctor who gave me pain killers.” He scowls, his other hand drumming his fingers against his abdomen. “I couldn’t let him examine me-” He gestures helplessly to his helmet that still sits in your lap, and your face softens with sympathy.

“Oh.”

“Lost most of my hearing in my left ear,” he murmurs, squeezing your held hand at how your face drains of color. Your shock and disquiet must show, because he gives you a slight smile that is nothing short of handsome. “Learned  _ Dakiit _ when I came back. Basic Sign. Paz taught me,” he says, petting your hand in a soothing motion. “He’s the only one who knows. And now you know, too.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me before?” you ask, gentle and unaccusing as you reach one hand up to brush your fingertips along the shell of his ear. You feel him shiver beneath you, and the thrill it directs to your stomach is new and exciting. 

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” he answers promptly with ease, tilting his head to regard you. “I just make sure you’re on my right side so I can hear you.” 

And then he has the nerve to wink.

“ _ Cyare? _ ” The sweet, fearful voice draws both of your gazes to the entryway of the vestibule, and Corde is looking at you with tears in her eyes, holding the baby in her arms who’s sniffling against her shoulder. “He won’t stop crying.” 

Immediately, you move to stand, your own heart dropping like a stone, but Din’s hand arrests on your thigh, keeping you in place. “Bring them over,” he whispers, and you look back at him with uncertainty, but his voice, his face seems so sure that you don’t argue.

You wave the girl over, and she bites her lip, padding over to you before freezing when she sees the Mandalorian without his helmet. Slowly, the baby lifts his head, blinking with wide, wondrous eyes. His ears begin to lift with curiosity, and you give them both an encouraging nod.

“It’s alright,” you whisper, holding out a hand. “He’s much better now.”

Corde hesitates, staring at Din and holding his gaze as if he might lash out suddenly, but the baby begins to wiggle and grab at the air with his hands, grunting to be let down. You stand up and gently usher the little girl forward, and she lets the child clamber onto the bed. His small green hands and oversized ears are busy with movement as he crawls up the Mandalorian’s body, stopping to lay flat on his chest and stare, nearly nose to nose.

Slowly, Din smiles, lifting both hands to rub at the child’s back, and the baby coos, pressing his own tiny fingers against the warrior’s cheeks. Without preamble, he nestles his head beneath his father’s chin and closes his eyes. The Mandalorian’s dark gaze flickers to the little girl, and she takes a step closer to your skirts, shyly observing this new face. 

“He won’t bite,” you tease her softly, stroking the loosened baby hairs from her face. 

With hesitant steps, Corde approaches the bedside, not breaking Din’s eye contact for anything. You think the moment must be incredibly important-perhaps even more than it had been when you had first seen his face. But then, to your surprise, Din sticks his tongue out at the little girl, and her face cracks into a toothy grin. With the tension dissolving, she leans both elbows on the bed, swaying restlessly but staying as close as she can. 

“Where’d your helmet go?” she whispers, as if asking for forbidden information.

Din whispers back, “On the table.” 

“Can I try it on?”

You hold your breath, but Din just smiles. “It’s a little too big for you.”

Corde sighs with resignation, nodding before pushing herself up to climb onto the bed beside him. She wriggles until her head is pillowed beside his own, and you bite your lip, rubbing away the knot in your throat. You meet his gaze, you hope, and flush when he winks again. You turn away quickly, flustered by the soft scene of companionship, only to realize you can hear the quiet, reserved sounds of someone muffling their sniffles. 

You lean against the archway of the vestibule, the threshold narrow but the room itself wide and open. Curled with his kneels to his chest, Venka blends into the sandy stone for you until you recognize his familiar shape, and you feel your heart shrivel hearing his soft whimpers. Moving so you won’t spook him, you gingerly lower yourself onto the small pallet beside him, folding your hands in your lap. The need to say something burns in your throat, but Venka himself turns before you expect it and buries his face in your abdomen, sliding his little arms around your waist and wetting his tears upon your dress.

Your fingers slowly come to comb through his curls, your other hand resting upon his back and letting him cry. Your own eyes grow misty, but you continue to stroke his hair, finding as much comfort in the action as he does. You gently lean back until you’re braced against the wall, holding the small boy in your arms with all the comfort and affection you have, and your eyes begin to grow heavy when you feel him pressing sign into your palm.

_ Are you really leaving us? _

Exhausted, it takes you a minute to realize not only did he hear you and Din talk of the bounty, but it also occurs to you what has him so upset. You lay your free hand against his back, drawing your thumb up and down in soothing motions. You consider your words, knowing you will not lie to him. You think of another small boy, cowering with fear in the wake of his parents’ death, and suddenly, you are grateful for the dispute you and your lover have had.

“I think so,” you admit quietly, pressing your lips to the top of his head. “But only...only for a little while. You’ll be safer here than you will be with us. And then, when we come back, we’ll be together.” 

Venka thinks about this very hard, going still and silent. Your heart thumps painfully with impatience, but then he signs into your palm.

_ You said we wouldn’t have to leave you. _

Biting your lip, you draw your hand to the boy’s cheek and tilt his face up towards you. There is grief in his sweet eyes, and fear, too. You wipe his tears with your thumbs and take a steadying breath, settling him more comfortably under your arm as you begin to tell him the truth, as simply and fully as you can. You speak of the Mandalorian being a hunter for bad men, and you tell him that there are bad men after the little child you all love so much. There is a part of you, not insignificant, that feels panicked at the idea of being separated from these children. But a larger part of you, fierce and burning in your heart, knows that they will be safer guarded by the galaxy’s most fearsome warriors. By their found family.

When you look into the little boy’s face again, soft with baby fat and misty with tears, the anguish, the sadness is nearly gone, replaced with grim understanding. The only other thing you can make out now in the low light of the lantern is a distinct child’s fear, and he clings to your dress with a pudgy hand, the other signing against your own hand.

_ Will he be okay? _

The question scares you, because you know how deadly Din is. You know he would kill, shoot, and scrape his way out of the most dangerous situations as if it is just his lot in life to do so, and hardly utter a complaint about it. But the uncertainty in his voice, the raw worry he spoke with this bounty sickens your stomach. Something is different this time, and he knows it. Now, so do you.

“That’s why I’m going with him,” you whisper, resuming to pet his hair. Things rattling in your chest seem to settle, every emotion, conviction, and doubt falling into their respective places, and you gently lay down on the pallet with the boy, curling around him so you both can sleep. “I’m going to make sure that he comes back safely.” 

The next time you wake, you think it must be nearing dawn. You can hear the quiet shuffling in the quarters that speaks of another life, and you look down to see Venka buried beneath his pillow and the fur that has kept you both warm. You tuck him in further before rising, mind foggy and eyes swollen from yesterday’s tears. 

As you sit up, you hiss harshly in pain, snatching your hand upward against your chest. You rise with heavy, clumsy movements, shuffling into the room to find Din sitting on the floor, and you freeze. He's still not replaced his helmet, or any of his armor, for that matter. Now, he sits cross legged, socks and pants keeping his lower half warm and his shirt tossed over his knee. He’s got the tin canister of bacta cream, rubbing it on his shoulder that must still be giving him a significant amount of pain for him to be up this early. His eyes flicker across the room to you, shiny flecks of obsidian in the dim light. 

You smile softly.

“Would you like some help?”

His hand drops to his lap with a quiet sigh, and he nods. You join him on the floor, kneeling at his side and use your uninjured hand to scoop the cream out with fingertips. Its gel-like texture makes it cool against the heat of his skin, and you don’t miss the way his shoulders sink in relief as you paint him with it, rubbing your dry palm gently over the swollen tendons to make sure it absorbs. 

“Did you sleep at all?” you whisper, concentrating on your task.

You feel him nod, hear him grunt when you press into the tender spot where his collarbone ends. Once the cream is applied, you glance at his shirt and silently pick it up, helping him get it over his head and tugging it down where he needs help with it. The scars that decorate his body still remind you of gold leaf, scattering low on his belly, on the lower parts of his arms, everywhere the armor has not protected him over the years. When you step behind him, your eyes alight on four deep knicks at the base of his neck. They look like crescent moons. 

Din chuckles when your fingers ghost over them, shrugging the rest of his thickly woven shirt down before turning to you. “A gift,” he says, his crinkling eyes holding sweetness even if his voice is teasing. “From you, when we...after you shot the blaster.” 

Your eyes widen in realization, a crimson flush painting your cheeks until they glow, and your hand steals to your mouth to cover the gasp. “I don’t even remember-! I-I’m so sorry!”

His laugh is fuller now, rich and deep, and you have to shush him so he won’t wake the other two children still sleeping heavily on your bed. Your shame seems to only bring him amusement and...and, if you’re not mistaken, an aura of pride. 

“I’m not,” he chuckles, cupping your cheek with his right hand. 

Your brow draws together, memories fluttering like loose papers in your sleep addled mind. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you whisper resolutely, frowning now.

“It didn’t hurt. Not really,” he tells you softly, tilting your chin up with a crooked finger now until you can see his eyes. Holding his gaze is the most intimate thing you’ve ever done, even more than making love with him, and you feel that familiar tightness return low in your stomach. “No more than I made you hurt.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, looking down at your hand and searching for the courage buried beneath your shyness. It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask him something that you’ve wondered for a few days now when he makes a sudden, sharp noise, his hand striking out to grab your wrist.

“What happened?” he whispers, cradling your hand with both of his. You blink, and you suspect your face must hold your own surprise because his voice is laced with an impatient venom. “Your entire hand is swollen. Who did this?”

“I-I did,” you say, your shoulders sinking in relief. This is an easier topic, you think, than having to speak of bounties and honor and Mandalorian rituals that you know the two of you will have to spend your day discussing. You allow him to gently look over your hand and shrug. “I...hit it against a wall.”

Din leads you to sit upon the foot of the bed, and you don’t miss the careful, slow gait in his walk. He must still be sore, must still be hurting. You are happy he can move as much as this, though it pains you to see him aching. How long had he gone these past years without ever being cared for?

He returns with a syringe, and you gulp. He kneels down, glancing up at your face. “I’ve never known you to be clumsy.” It’s a statement, a test, a silent invitation to give him the truth.

“It was on purpose,” you mutter, looking at the syringe’s barrel. The needle is too small for you to see, but you feel it when it pierces the skin once he’s cleaned a small area, injecting the analgesic into the worst of the swelling. You feel the inflammation calm almost immediately, your own shoulders falling lax. He retrieves a small bandage, wrapping it around the meat of your palm so you can still use your fingers. “I was angry,” you admit, looking away shamefully.

Din is quiet, fingers working with such tender care that it almost doesn’t feel like him. “At me,” he surmises, tucking the end of the bandage beneath so it stays wrapped. You both sit in silence, now looking at each other, and you heave a sigh, nodding once. 

“And myself,” you add when you see his face drop. You reach for his own hand, squeezing his fingers with your uninjured grip, and you offer him a small smile. “But I think you came out of this more bruised than I did.”

He shifts until he’s sitting beside you on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, both of you leaning back against the wall. You let your head drop upon his arm, smiling when he lays his hand on your leg. You can feel the heat of his skin through the thin material of your skirts, and your mind once more recalls how he’d held your legs up, how he’d cradled you so close. Your teeth gently cross over the plumpness of your bottom lip, turning your face towards his body now.

“How...that is, what you did in the tunnel that day and...and later that night…”

“Mmm?” His voice sounds sleepy now, a gentle hum, and you think his eyes must be closed. His thumb is drawing circles in lazy patterns on your leg though, so you know he is listening.

“What you did with y-your mouth,” you whisper, face burning with the deepest of blushes. You feel him shift to lean down closer, feel his lips press sweetly against your temple. “Is...do all men do that?”

Once the question is spoken, it doesn’t seem so embarrassing. In fact, your curiosity burns more than your shame, especially as he shifts again to draw you beneath his arm so you’re both more comfortable. He kicks his sock clad ankles over each other, and he takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice raspy with sleep. “I would hazard a guess that some do not.”

You play with the hem of your skirts, folding your legs beneath you. “Why...why did you want to?”

He chuckles, and you can feel it in his chest more than you can hear it in the room. “Because,” he pauses here, thinking over his words. “Because I hoped it would make you feel good.” Another pause, and now his fingers are playing with the tips of your hair. You remember he did the same thing when he stood at your back as you held the blaster. He is genuinely interested when he asks, “Did it?” 

Your smile is atrociously big, and you try to smother it in the weave of his shirt. “Yes.” You bite your lip, your own hand thoughtfully plucking his fingers on your thigh, feeling as if you’re playing with the paw of some great beast. Another thought comes to mind, one that brings you a small jolt of anxiety. You hope he cannot hear the hesitancy in your voice, but you doubt he misses it. He doesn’t miss much of anything. “How did you know to do it?”

Din grows still beside you, rigid and uncomfortably tense, and you raise your head to look at him only to find his eyes trained on something across the room and… 

“Are you blushing?” you ask in wonder, sitting up quickly and touching his cheek to feel warmth. He wriggles under your eagerness, snorting.

“Of course not!”

“Shhh!”

He purses his lips at you, an annoyed glare tossed your way, but you can see the corners of his mouth fighting against the urge to lift and curve into a smile. “If I tell you,” he says carefully. “Can we go back to bed?”

“Yes,” you answer quickly, smirking in triumph. “But you must tell it all.”

“Fine,” he huffs, settling back down. He grabs one of the many cushions so you can lay back against his side rather than against the cold stone wall. The pallet is big enough for both of you and all the children should you wish to share it. You prop your chin up on his chest, blinking with excitement. He sighs noisily, looking up at the ceiling. “I...must have been no older than...17, 18. My first bounty, some inner rim planet with too many suffocating towns and nightclubs. It was easy, just a bail jumper. I was supposed to find him in a cantina, so I decided to sit at a table and just wait for him to show up.”

You bite your lip to keep from interjecting, a grin breaking your face in half.

He sighs again at your smug expression, pinching your waist. When you suck in a gasp, burying a squeak against his chest, he chuckles, “So I’m waiting there, listening to someone’s poor taste in music when I...well, I didn’t  _ mean _ to eavesdrop, but that’s what I was doing. These two women were behind me in a booth, and they were talking so loud that it was distracting.”

Your eyebrows lift now, cocking your head to the side.

Din’s eyes flicker to your face, and he rolls them when you don’t seem to understand. “You know.” His hand slides down, cupping your bottom and squeezing until you gasp. “ _ Distracting _ .”

“O-Oh.” 

“They were talking about things they did the night before,” he goes on, relaxing his hold so his hand is more modestly resting just above the curve of your rump, holding you against his warmth. He pauses, considering something. “I assume they were lovers, but...either way, they were talking about something they did for each other and how...good it felt. And tasted,” he pauses, and you see the way his throat dips as he swallows, the flush in his face and ears deepening. You feel your own legs press together at the memories of how good he’d made you feel. “And I...I hadn’t been with anyone, I-” he clears his throat here, shifting to look back up at the ceiling as if the Maker is up there, helping him get through the story. “-but the more they spoke, the more I wanted to. They made it sound so... _ fun _ .” 

You’re surprised by the tender sadness in his voice, in his recollection, and it takes you a moment to realize he had not had the touch of anyone at that point. No parent, no friend, no lover. You lean into him more, resting your head near his upon the pillow and pressing your lips to the side of his throat, tasting salt and skin.

His hand slides up to sink his fingers into your hair, sighing beneath you. “And...and I just listened to what they said...hoped I’d get to do it someday,” he mutters, trailing off the more your lips and mouth press sweetened kisses along the shell of his deaf ear, his stubble covered jaw, and then his nose. You hide your smile against the spot just beneath his ear, and when your teeth brush against his skin, you feel him shiver. 

Din’s breath is shortened, and you lift yourself up, blushing when his hand tightens in your hair so you won’t go too far. “You shouldn’t be...that is, you should be resting,” you lament, laying your bandaged hand over his chest. His dark eyes seem so wide, his golden skin so flushed. You can’t keep your weak sighted gaze from drinking up every inch of it all, and he nods with a jerk of his head.

Smiling, you settle back down beside him, drawing your hand down his stomach and letting your thumb rub over the dip above his naval. “Did the women know you were listening?” you ask, prompting him to continue with his story.

You feel him take a ragged inhale, his breath hitching when there is a twinge of pain in his chest. He clears his throat, his other hand settling over your own. “Yes.” You think he is smiling now, just from hearing his voice, and you close your eyes, grinning with him. “They asked what a puny boy did to earn a Mandalorian’s armor, because it could not have been from my skills as a spy.” You snort, moving closer to slip your feet between his socks. 

“I would have been mortified.” 

“Oh, I was.” 

“Did you run away?”

“No.” There is a beat, his fingers stilling in your hair. You hold your breath until he sighs. “I...I asked if they’d...explain what they were talking about.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of your mouth is high and loud, and he has to cover your lips so you won’t wake the three sleeping children. He’s shushing you, too, but you know he’s smiling when you see that familiar flash of teeth.

“I just figured they’d know best,” he whispers, and you have to bury your face in the cushion to keep from screaming with laughter at his expense. You’re both shaking, trembling with loose giggles that you desperately try to hide. He shifts until he’s nose to nose with you, and you open your watery eyes to try and make out the details of his face in the dark. He ducks his head and kisses your injured hand with reverence and says, “Worth the wait.”

Surprised, you can’t keep yourself from scooting closer. “You...you waited to do that? Why?” He looks up at you, staring with something you can’t quite decipher, but you realize slowly what he implies. Doing something so intimate made him vulnerable to you, and...and he would have to bare himself in more ways than one. The Creed prohibits him to show his face to anyone, but he has shown it to you. You bite your lip, looking down at your fingers that are joined together. “Well,” you whisper, smiling with a gentle laziness. “I am glad to be your first for such pleasures, then.”

“It was as much mine as it was yours,” Din whispers, as if giving you some forbidden secret, and you flush red all over again. You are about to ask him more, the door of his youth and childhood now open to you, but you both still when you feel a tiny pressure crawling up your legs.

The child’s ears perk up over the top of the fur when you look up, and then his face crests the edge before he tumbles down in the narrow space between your chests. You grin widely, slipping your arms around him and kissing the top of his head. Immediately, he cocoons himself between the warmth of your bodies, his large, inky eyes drooping shut with sleep.

Din snorts.

Shifting just enough so your sore hand won’t be crushed, you rest your head upon his uninjured shoulder and close your own eyes. Listening to his breathing, the distant, quiet sound of his heart, you feel yourself being drawn back towards sleep, but for the simmering of need in your heart that aches for the little boy on the other side of the room.

“Venka is afraid we won’t come back.” You whisper it, because you realize then that you fear it, too. Holding the child against your chest, you feel like a little girl again, scared and unsure.

Din’s arm tightens ever so carefully around you, and you can feel when he presses his lips to the crown of your head. It leaves you with an unfamiliar but delightful warmth. “ _ We _ won’t.  _ I _ will,” he reminds you, his tone light, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“I refuse to argue what is destined to be,” you huff quietly, hearing him sigh noisily through his nose. “I’m coming with you.” Your fingers find a loose thread on the child’s robe, and you play with it absent-mindedly, the heaviness in your breast not abating. “I don’t know what to say to comfort him.”

The Mandalorian’s fingers stroke through the softness of your hair at your neck, lulling you into a deeper state of relaxation. You think, if you listen closely, you can hear his mind turning over thoughts and working through the puzzle and problem of caring for these children you call your own. Finally, he lays his palm flat against your neck, warm and reassuring. “The unknown is what scares us most,” he murmurs. “Perhaps if we tell him what he wishes to know, it will give him peace.”

You hum in thought, willing to concede that much, for it aligns with your own agenda. “And I will speak to Paz Vizla,” you mumble tiredly, ignoring the way the man beside you grows rigid and hesitant. You turn your face up towards him, eyes heavy lidded and narrowed. “You didn’t think that I would allow you to give my children to a man I do not know, did you?”

Din considers your face, revealing nothing of his own feelings until his eyebrows lift with an impressed air. “Well,” he admits. “I...I didn’t think of it that way. What do you plan to speak to him about?” 

Settling down once more with the baby in your arms, sleep slowly claiming you, you yawn, “I will decide whether or not he is good enough. You had your duel, Din Djarin, and now I shall have mine.” 


	8. Why He Loves You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paz Vizla proves himself to you, and the Mandalorian gives you a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! After recuperating and resting, I didn't realize how badly I needed a break. Thank you all for leaving comments and giving me feedback. I truly appreciate each and every one of you!

When you leave the quarters the next morning, you part ways with a most idyllic setting. Corde, with a neat braid and a wide smile, sits on the floor with the baby, both of them playing with his raggedy stuffed bantha. The child squeals every time she makes it walk or imitates its mooing. Upon the bed, reclining against the cushions, Din watches intently as Venka practices his _Dadita_ , leaning against the Mandalorian's side like a baby bird loathe to part from his parent. The warrior’s sore arm is resting across his abdomen, tucked in a sling you helped him fashion from a spare shirt.

Usually, Venka is right on the Mandalorian's heels, but since seeing his face for the first time, the boy seems even more eager to stay close to his guardian. It is endearing beyond anything you can describe, and you force yourself out of the room to hide the misty tears forming in your eyes.

Whether it is because he can see the face of his hero or because he knows they will be parted soon, you cannot say. Your thoughts are consumed by it, raveling around and through and across the decision you have made.

Corde and Venka will stay in the covert. The baby will go with you.

The truth of the matter is that you and Din chose to protect these children, but none of them are equal. You stayed up into the wee dawn, whispering your fears and doubts about leaving them, taking them with you, staying behind, or not going at all. Din remains adamant that any chance to protect the child from the Empire must be taken, and you are loathe to disagree. You do not wish for him to grow in the shadow of their manipulation and greed, and your continued nightmares of shielding him in the dark haunt you during your waking hours.

But, you have two other souls to consider now. When you ask Din if he could sleep well being parted from the two little children you found on Cantonica, he had not answered you beyond reiterating they would be safe in the covert. Of that, you harbor no doubt, but you worry less for their safety in that regard and become more fearful for their hearts. Venka’s sweet face, so broken and pained when he signed to you his disappointment, does not leave you even when you hear the thunderous echoes of fighting.

Din described the route to take through the tunnels to find the training hall, and it still takes asking directions for you to find it. Inside is a wide, deep cavern that is less of a room and more of an atrium. Torches with bellowing, crackling flames throw light every few feet, illuminating the space so that you can see the rows of training dummies, the shelves of weapons, the tables with various tools and equipment. Further, there is a vast, thickly woven mat covering a sunken part of the floor, threaded from thick cords and fabrics in deep maroon and gold. It catches the light, like blood scattered on wheat, and you suck in a breath when you come to stand near the edge, watching as Paz Vizla fully picks up another Mandalorian and hauls them over his head to slam them on the ground.

You can feel the vibrations in the floor beneath your slippers.

His midnight blue armor has been cleaned since you last saw him, shining with a silvery shimmer. You watch his shape shift and move, blocking every strike and hit of his opponent with such a clash that sparks hiss from between the beskar. You tilt your head when he dodges a furious punch to the gut, using his challenger’s momentum to kick them aside like a misbehaving pet. 

His helmet looks up toward where you stand with your hands folded patiently, and he arrests his hands on his hips. “Mistress Djarin,” he greets with a deep, amiable tone. “I did not think I’d see you here.” 

You open your mouth, but a battle cry breaks from the challenger, a young woman if you’re guessing is right, and the other Mandalorian tackles Paz to the ground. Paz grunts when his back hits the floor, and you watch with fascination as the woman pins him with both of her knees on either of his arms, straddling him with a huff of pride.

You clap your hands with a smile, and you watch as the female Mandalorian helps Paz to his feet. She has to dig her heels in, bracing her weight to heave him up, but she manages it with what seems to be very little effort. You watch curiously as they grasp forearms in an interesting handshake, a show of mutual respect and understanding, and her helmet tilts toward you as she climbs out of the fighting ring, leaving you and Paz Vizla alone. 

The Mandalorian is much larger up close, you think, especially when you are not armed with a rifle pointing at him. One of his biceps alone is nearly as wide as your thigh, and you try to focus your attention on his helmet rather than how much you must tilt your head backward to attempt to meet his gaze.

“I take it Djarin finally told you of his plan,” Paz says, leaning against the ledge of the fighting pit with his elbow. He seems completely at home around weapons and sweat, and you wonder if he was raised to be a warrior. Perhaps it is simply in his blood. 

Gingerly, you lower yourself to sit on the edge of the fighting ring, noticing how his hand hovers outward in case you tip forward and fall. His gloves are a grey leather, rather than the orange fingered ones you are used to seeing, and it feels like a shadow reaching out towards you.

“He did,” you agree, smoothing your skirt over your legs as you settle before clasping your hands together, choosing your words with care. “I...I did not expect what the truth would be.”

Paz chuckles, and it feels like the earth itself makes the noise from how deep it comes from his chest. “It is not out of the realm of our history for warriors to bequeath their clans to others. Responsible, even, if their clan is in danger, that they are left protected. Many have made sacrifices to ensure our survival,” Paz mutters, and you cannot help but hear the dripping bitterness in the back of his throat. “We will always be both hunter and prey.” 

A strange note in his words leaves you with a feeling of his remorse, and you incline your head towards him. “I do not hold any regret for what he has done, for the decision he has made to challenge you and give you this responsibility,” you say slowly, watching as the Mandalorian raises his visor to you. It becomes apparent that, even though you are seated on a ledge, he still stands of a height with you. You squeeze your fingers together in your lap, knuckles bearing white, shuffling your words like cards upon a gambler’s table. A smile flickers to life at the corners of your mouth, thinking of Din’s anxieties, of his worries befitting a kind and thoughtful man. “I would have preferred to only know them from the start.”

A loud bark from behind Paz’s helmet seems to shake the vocoder, and he leans back against the ledge. “He’s always thought second to acting on something, even as a kid,” he mutters, shoving his arms into his elbows to cross them over his chest. You can hear such affection in his chastisement that it makes you soft with emotion. From the cold and taciturn nature of the Mandalorian you first met, who bought your freedom with his livelihood, you never suspected him to be so loved then, so cared for and admired. “I told him to tell you,” Paz adds, defensive and irate.

“Well, now he has.” 

“And you approve?”

“Of withholding his decision from me? No,” you huff, wrinkling your nose. “But I won’t deny its merit for the safety of the children, so I cannot fault him for his choice in that. Simply the execution.”

Paz straightens, now facing you like a soldier staring down a battle to wage. “Then you accept I won the duel?” he asks, his words holding an energy, an eagerness you are not familiar with.

“If I recall,” you say slowly, your eyes following the strong lines of broad shoulders and powerful arms. “I was the one who prevailed.” 

He scoffs, “You were an interloper!”

“I doubt semantics are often discussed while real wars are won. Regardless,” you breeze over his growl with a smile. “He has tested your strength and ability to protect, but there is something much more pressing you must pass for my own assurances.” 

The two of you stare each other down, and it is a situation in which you have never found yourself. There is no ill-will born of either you; in fact, the air is determined, full of hunger to prove yourself-he, as a protector, and you, as a mother. Your face begins to crease with every aching worry, doubt, and fear coming to the surface. You hear Venka asking you once more why you are to leave him behind, and you can feel the invisible hands of Corde grasping at your skirts. Your fingers find their way to the bridge of your nose, and you force yourself to forget your father, who had given his life to protect you, who you wish you could ask for advice. “I need to know you can care for them.”

Paz Vizla’s entire posture locks with an indignant sort of outrage. His voice shakes the modulator of his helmet when he exclaims, “What do you call the challenge-!”

“I don’t speak of physical acts,” you snap, dropping your arms with force. Tears prick the corners of your eyes when you realize that this conversation, these words will be the final seal on the appointment of your departure. You are leaving children behind, the ones you have promised to protect and to love, and it feels not unlike leaving vital parts of yourself. How will you breathe or think or eat not knowing if they are loved, or listened to, or made happy? You shove yourself off the ledge, your ankles protesting the jolting landing, but you are too full of upset to sit still. 

“Children are not warriors, and I know that must sound s-sacrilege to a Mandalorian. But-but they are not fearless like you. They will break as they are now,” you take a deep breath, holding your chin steady as you stare into his visor. “Corde, she-sometimes, she will ask so many questions, it might test the patience of a saint. She will push and prod and demand answers that you do not always have. And Venka, he cannot speak, but he has so much to tell you that you have to listen and watch and understand, or he will never open up. It has taken all the best parts of me,” you say with no small amount of realization. “To love them because I always thought children easy, but they’re not that simple. They take every drop of sweat and blood from you, not knowing to give you thanks for it, and I need to know that you will be willing to give this for them or I won’t give you my approval.” 

Paz Vizla stares at you, remote and unmoving, and you realize you are crying, heaving for breath. You take the silence for the advantage of steadying your heart, laying your palm across your chest as if the touch alone might calm it. 

“I need to know that they will never question that they are still loved, whether I am here or not.” 

The pearls of salt in your eyes flood what distorted shadows you can make out, washing the sparring room in blurred light. When one rolls over the apple of your cheek, like blood shed from a stone, it falls to the corded mat you stand on, and you don’t miss the way the Mandalorian warrior’s visor follows it. You can hear the creak of leather as he curls his hands at his sides, the static of the vocoder as he blows a huge sigh through it, the hitch of his lungs that he cannot disguise.

Suddenly he turns and shoves his gloves on the edge of the fighting pit, hoisting himself up before turning towards you and holding out a hand. You stare, sniffling and unsure until he flutters his fingers. “Come on,” he rumbles, voice thick with emotion you don't have a name for, can’t understand. “There is something you need to see.”

When you take his hand, he lifts you off your feet like a child picking up a straw doll, setting you down with a slight thump, but he does not let go of your hand. There is a blush you can’t quite fight, allowing him to lead you through the tunnels of the covert. You think about the first time Din held your hand, how gentle and warm it felt, and though this is not romantic in nature, there is something about the firm grip that reassures you. 

Short months ago, had someone grabbed your hand and began leading you into the dark, you would have put up a fight, dug in your heels with your heart pounding in your throat.

There is a large archway at the end of the passage he takes you down, and the thick fabric partition that hangs from the top does little to disguise the sounds of high pitched giggling and shouting. Outside the archway, two warriors lean on either side of the threshold, talking animatedly with their hands until Paz Vizla approaches, waving a glove. The taller of the two folds back the partition, her visor glancing between the large warrior and yourself. 

You watch in rapt silence as his silhouette stalks into the room only for a cacophony of voices to swell around you both.

Children. 

At least a dozen, you think, some wearing helms of Mandalore to fit their small statures, others with wild hair and flushed cheeks and bright eyes. They are of differing ages. You spy two that are tall enough to be young adults, but many are tiny and clamoring around Paz’s legs, shouting for him to pick them up. One eager little boy throws himself up and latches onto the warrior’s arm, hanging like the fruit from a large tree, and he makes a show of flailing before hitting the floor like someone has felled that same tree.

Immediately, no less than five children begin to climb on him, laughing and tumbling in eager play. 

You realize you stand in the middle of the room, slack-jawed and awed, so you glance around to see neat rows of pallets with thick cushions lining the walls. There are toys made of wood and soft fabrics, blocks and dolls and puzzles scattered everywhere. High on the ceiling of the room, there is a carved dome in the rock, open slats that you think must be man-made to allow fresh air and natural light to cast itself off the walls. 

Slowly, you lower yourself to sit on your heels, resting your hands on your legs as you watch the man who nearly broke your lover in half roughhouse with children as if he were no more a threat than a pup. You break into a smile when a small girl whacks him on the helmet with some kind of sporting bat, and he throws himself flat on his back, groaning loudly enough to make all the foundlings laugh and giggle at his antics.

The child sitting on his chest looks over, her dark braids falling in her face. “Are you really hurt, Paz? You can still carry us around, right?” You listen as she leans forward and whispers loudly, “You said you’d give me a shoulder ride!”

You’re so enraptured with the show of affection and play that you don’t realize when someone sits beside you, and you blink with surprise to find one of the older children mirroring your posture. Her helmet is a dusky charcoal, the metal not quite as shiny but the visor gleaming. 

“Your hair is so pretty,” she says, and you don’t miss the slight wistful envy in her tone. You smile shyly, reaching up to touch the thick lock of hair laying over your shoulder. It has never occurred to you what hides beneath a Mandalorian’s helmet, certainly not before meeting Din. It is a natural extension of them, in your mind, but watching the blurry outline of the girl’s helmet, you tilt your head to the side.

“It’s quite a mess, usually,” you confess, folding your hands in your lap. “And a chore.”

She shifts, crossing her legs and leaning her elbows on her knees. She asks, “Then why do you keep it that way?” 

You think of the scar at the nape of your neck, at the comfort of having the familiar warmth against you like a shield. You think of your mother, drawing your plait through her fingers, and of Din pressing his face in the tresses against the pillow when you made love. You blush.

“It makes me happy,” you say weakly, looking down at your knees. “My mother wore her hair long, too. I don’t remember what she looks like, but I remember her hair.” 

The girl is quiet, sitting with you while you both listen to Paz Vizla tie a blindfold around his helmet and begin a game of blind man’s bluff. You snort when he walks into a wall, followed by a chorus of giggling laughter. 

You glance at the young girl and clear your throat. “I can teach you how to plait, if you like.”

She turns to you, sitting up a little straighter. “Really?”

You nod, overcome with the eagerness suddenly rolling off of her in waves, and you shift slightly to sit with your legs curled beside you. “If you want to learn to do it on yourself, you’ll have to practice,” you tell her, slowly coming through your hair with your fingers. A small, hesitant tap draws your attention, and you turn to find a boy, not much younger than the girl beside you offering you a comb. You smile, murmuring your thanks, and straighten your hair with it until it’s silky and untangled. 

Drawing your hands up, you move your fingers with slow, careful movements, explaining how to weave a plait with your fingers. The girl and boy watch in silence, and when you turn to show them the finished product, you find at least three more children watching. Smirking, you let the braid fall and shake it loose.

“Why don’t you try?”

“On you?” the helmed girl asks, suddenly nervous. “What if I mess it up?”

“It’s just hair,” you laugh, your nose wrinkling. “Besides, you learn better when you mess up. Go on, try it.”

You turn back around and sit with a familiar tranquility, and when her thin hands begin arranging your hair, you sigh. When she pauses, you remind her quietly, “Over and under.” 

An answering grunt is all you receive, and you smile when she huffs in defeat. “It doesn’t look like the one you did.”

“It’s a little loose,” you admit, patting your hair. “But that’s okay. Try it again.” She combs it out, once more, and you close your eyes at the relaxed feeling of having your hair played with. “I do this for my-” you pause, swallowing hard on the word daughter. “I do this for my girl every morning,” you say softly, drawing a hand down the smooth plane of your bodice. “I don’t think she could ever sit still long enough to learn it herself,” you add with a smile.

The girl laughs at that, and this time she doesn’t need to be prompted when she finishes the plait. “Maybe she’ll let me practice on her?” she asks with hope, and you draw the thick braid over your shoulder to feel the uneven cord it makes.

“I think she would like that.” 

When Paz realizes he has lost the majority of his playmates, he finds you preening beneath two small girls and an older boy as they play with your hair, tangling it hopelessly in hopes of creating different plaits. One of them has found dried herbs stolen from the kitchens to thread in, and the warrior shakes with laughter, sitting heavily down at your feet.

“Having fun?”

You hum, cracking one eye open as lofty as a house cat that’s found its perch near the hearth, smiling. He shakes his head with an air of amusement, and the two of you sit companionably as the children around you play. 

You aren’t sure how much time passes, but from the dusky golden light, you suspect it must be close to evening. A male Mandalorian steps through the threshold of the room to call the foundlings for dinner, and you open your eyes to watch as they all trickle out.

The young girl you’d made friends with stops from rising before she darts forward, hugging you around the shoulders fiercely and nearly knocking her helmet against your head. You puff with surprise, shy as you go to hug her back. She allows you a brief moment to return the gesture before she bounds up and out the door to follow her brothers and sisters, leaving you with a dizzying sense of affection and a smile upon your lips.

When you turn to your companion, you find his visor trained on you. 

“I see why he loves you.”

Your breath catches, and for one small moment, you think you might forget how to breathe at all. Feelings and thoughts tumble together in a mirage, because all at once you are overwhelmed by newness and reassured what you have known. You don’t think you can quite believe it, and yet there is something so inherently understood, soul-deep and tangible as the firmament above. 

You want to ask how he knows such a thing. Has he been confided in? Or is it from observing his brother so well over the years he just knows, as you do? The comfort and acceptance of the simple phrase has left you bereft of coherency, and your lips part and close not unlike a fish out of water.

“What?” Paz laughs then, sitting up slowly before pushing himself to his feet. “You didn’t know?”

When he extends his hand this time, you don’t hesitate as before to take his glove, still stumbling when he lifts you easily to your feet. His other hand rests upon your shoulder, warm and heavy, and you suck in air, shaking your head. He chuckles again, bemused and endeared, and you feel the gentle bump of his helmet against the crown of your head. 

“Come on, _buir’ika_. Let me deliver you back to your nest.”

In the passage that houses the most Mandalorians, you hear the echoes of chatting and laughing as Mandalorians gather to eat in various rooms, the clatter of dishes and the smell of seasonings and spices floating in the air, making your mouth water. You find that nearly every entrance to the differing quarters are opened, their curtains and partitions hanging up rather than blocking out the golden light of their hearths. Children run between the rooms, women and men calling out to each other like a village, and your eyes well up with tears at the wholesome cheerfulness of this modest tribe.

You have never seen something like this before.

When Paz pauses just outside the entrance to your quarters, you take the opportunity to slip your arms around his middle, pressing your tear stained cheek against the cool beskar of his chest plate. His hands come up quickly in surprise before he awkwardly pats the top of your head. You only raise your face when your tears have fallen, sniffling bashfully when he tilts his head down toward you. 

“The baby will go with you?” he queries, gently cupping his fist in his hand in a strange act of nerves.

You nod, looking toward the curtain that separates the children and Din from the rest of the covert. “Yes,” you murmur, your thoughts of leaving and staying swimming behind your eyes. Each has its place, and your resolution settles in your breast. “As long as the Empire is after him, it would be dangerous for him to stay in one place too long. And dangerous for everyone here,” you add, looking up when a female Mandalorian crosses the hallway, carrying a wide platter of food. You brush your cheeks with your fingers, taking a deep breath. “I would...I would never forgive myself if we brought grief here, when all you have given me is joy.” 

A crooked leather finger turns your chin up to his visor, and the tip of his thumb taps your nose with affection. “The two are not always exclusive, and we bear it together, _buir’ika_. We belong to you, just as you belong to us. This is the way.”

Tears slip from the tips of your lashes, brushing your flushed cheeks as they fall and paint your dress, but the trembling of your lips turns into a watery smile at the staggering warmth and safety the familiar words give you. Once it had filled you with something strange and ominous, but now, hearing it from the galaxy’s most hardened warriors, bearing golden hearts and passion for their brothers and sisters, for the children they birth and save, you realize it is not a warning of threat, but a welcome to a home you never believed to exist.

You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands over your stomach to steady yourself, and you agree, “This is the way.” 

When you part the curtain and step into the vestibule, you take your time to remove your boots, smiling as you set them beside two small pairs of children’s shoes and near the Mandalorian’s own. You hear quiet voices from within, and as you walk deeper into the quarters, you find lanterns lit to a beautiful glow, lighting up your vision enough to make out dishes on the low table filled with roasted meat, glazed vegetables, and fresh bread. Corde is drinking deeply from a clay cup when she looks up over Venka’s curly mop of hair, her eyes widening with delight when she sees you. She sports a bantha milk mustache when she sets it down, crying your name out with joy.

Din and Venka look up from where they both sit on the same cushion across from another figure you don’t recognize at first. You wondered why the curtain is not pinned back like the rest of the families, and now you realize it is because there is a visitor. The baby sits in their lap, being fed pieces of spiced meat with a gentle hand. 

“Good evening,” the Armorer greets, her golden helmet catching the light of the lantern when she turns her visor toward you. 

“Your hair looks pretty,” Corde says, bounding over to you and grabbing your hand like it’s something precious. “Who put flowers in it? Can I have one?”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know we’d have company,” you stutter, your heart suddenly fluttering with anxiety. You pick the little girl up, balancing her against your waist to let her pluck the herbs from your hair. Lavender and rosemary, you think idly, surprised when both Din and the Armorer laugh as you try in vain to pat your hair into submission.

“You were not meant to know,” the Armorer replies placidly, stroking the baby’s wrinkly brow as he chomps on the small bite of seared meat. She lounges on the cushion as if she is completely at peace, though Din sits with a ramrod straight back, his helm polished and gleaming to a starlight shine. She gestures to him lazily and says, “Your _ver'gebuir_ commissioned me, and I have delivered it.” 

“It’s for your trip,” Corde whispers conspiratorially, tugging you by your hand closer as Din stands. He retrieves a slim package wrapped in a soft, sandy cotton cloth. The Mandalorian seems hesitant, the way his unarmored shoulders curl in, and he holds himself so warily, but he extends his gloved hands toward you, offering the parcel. Your eyebrows float upward as you set the child down and take it, the small size not readying you for the hefty weight, and you carefully unfold the cloth to reveal a smooth, cold steel wand. 

Beskar.

It measures just as long as your elbow to your fingertips, and the end is carved with the same polished, watery metal in the shape of an animal. You blink, staring at it before raising your pale eyes to the Mandalorian, who you realize is holding his breath with fervent anticipation. You let your fingers trail along the length of the cold metal, finding it smooth and unblemished. 

“I...I don’t understand,” you confess quietly, feeling a deep sense of failure at being unable to decipher such a gift, but the Armorer stands, holding the infant with all the air of a practiced mother. 

“Point it up or down, and as you hold it, turn your wrist like you are revving a speeder bike.”

Blinking, you step back and angle the strange beskar rod as she instructs, and you flick your wrist with a firm movement. Like a bolt from a blaster, the ends of the rod sing a soft metallic whisper and extend nearly as tall as you are. You shift the staff gently so the bottom rests near your toes, unable to feel the seams of the extensions where the metal aligns.

“It is a walking staff,” the Armorer explains, adjusting your fingers to grip it properly. The baby’s large, inky eyes seem to grow wider as he coos, and you yourself stare in wonder at the beautiful craftsmanship. “I have never had the honor to make such a weapon as this.”

“Weapon?” you ask, dragging your gaze away to find her visor. It is a wash of shadow and gold.

Her helm tilts thoughtfully, and she hums. “It will be a tool for many things, _vod’ika_. The emblems of our faith protect and strengthen us, and they are often given as gifts to those we cherish.” 

An unyielding knot forms in your throat, and you draw your gaze back to the staff, only then realizing Din stands just beyond it, watching and holding his fists so tight at his sides that the leather of his gloves strains. Your voice softens almost to a whisper, salt stinging your eyes until they redden. 

“You had this made for me?”

Din doesn’t say a word, but he gives a gentle nod. As you shift your fingers around the steel, a thought occurs to you, and you glance between him and the Armorer, sucking in a sharp breath. “But-but beskar is for your people. This...this must have cost so much,” you murmur, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth. “Surely the covert has needs-the foundlings-”

“There was more than enough left for the foundlings,” the Armorer says, slowly setting the child down at her feet. He immediately toddles forward, grasping the bottom of the staff with both three fingered hands and babbling happily up to you. At your confusion, Din clears his throat, a rasp still giving his voice a rather hoarse quality.

“The Ivalice brothers had large bounties,” he explains. His words are cold, tinged with little remorse or feeling, and you feel a withering sensation in the pit of your belly at the memories of Canto Bight, at the strikes across your face and the fear of the two waifs who tended your wounds. Din reaches out with care, and his hand gently curls over yours on the staff. You lift your pale eyes once more to meet his visor, and he nods again. Guarded, he whispers, “This is reparation.”

“We got gifts, too!” Corde declares, leaning against your leg and holding up a matching mythosaur pendant identical to the one the child wears. Corde beams up at you proudly, pressing the beskar against her cheek lovingly. 

The knot grows tighter in your throat, and you nod wordlessly at her, trying to smile and feeling incapable of controlling your suddenly wayward heart.

The Armorer bows her helmet, patting Venka on the head. “We will not see one another again before you return,” she says, laying a curled fist against her breast. “K'oyacyi, Djarin’aliit.”

All of you watch as she makes her leave, regal as an emperor in your eyes, and it’s only once Corde and Venka begin playing with the baby that you realize Din has not removed his hand from your own. You turn toward him, parting your lips to try and begin speaking what rests so painfully, thorny in your throat, but he speaks first.

“I-I’m sorry.” It is not what you expect for him to say, and your eyes widen as he drops his hand from yours. His fingers drum restlessly at his sides, and you attempt to swallow the knot currently choking you. His movements are flighty, skittish, and you think he wishes to run from the room. “I should have asked-asked if you even...I do not think you weak because you might benefit from this,” he mutters, his visor tilting toward the staff that you’re gripping with white knuckles now. “It has...it has nothing to do with that.” 

Your heart has begun to throw itself against your breast, heaving as if to break through the very cage of bones containing it, and you drag air into your lungs. “Din-”

“I need you to know,” Din whispers, taking a quick stride forward but stopping just short of touching you. His visor regards the children across the room, and you can hear him swallow. One of his hands-now, without its leather covering settles across the small of your back. “I need you to know that when we leave here, you… you don’t have to stay.”

Perhaps you would be less shocked, less winded had he kicked you in the stomach than spoke such a thing. Your mouth falls open, no small amount of horror prickling your scalp beneath the heat that floods your face. You stare up at him, blind eyes widening in lost outrage and wishing suddenly in that moment to see past the glass and steel. “W-What-?”

You didn’t see when he shed his gloves, but the warmth of his skin cups your own hands around the staff, and the cool of his helm kisses your brow. Your hot breath fogs his visor. “You have been free to leave the moment we left the cantina,” he whispers, hoarse and choking, and you recognize the tremble in his fingers, the catch in his breath. “You owe me nothing for that, for your freedom. You do not have to stay out of...out some sense of debt.”

When he first spoke, you felt your temper flare and spark like a blaster wound, and it cauterizes instantly as the weight of his words shift. You recall how easy it was to leave after the two of you had argued. With your freedom, credits to your name, and now an aid, it occurs to you that you never possessed as much independence as he has supported you to gain. 

You truly are free. But the realization fills you with a bittersweetness in the face of his confession.

“You...you think that I have loved you in spite of my autonomy,” you surmise, squinting as you work the words past your teeth. Your toes curl against the smooth stone floor beneath your feet, and you watch his helmet closely until he nods, hesitant and perhaps even nervous. Tilting the staff forward, you tap it against his helmet lightly once, whispering, “Take off your helmet, Din.”

For a moment, you don’t think he will. You think he may refuse you out of dignity, to spare you both revealing the tears he has shed, but perhaps the fact you are well aware of them already is freeing him to do it. Because he does, reaching with shaking fingers to release the catch, the metal hissing softly so he can lift it up, bearing his visage.

A smile, watery and impassioned, plays across the smooth planes of your lips as you step closer and gently press your mouth to his. His skin is hot to the touch, smooth where he has shaved his jaw clean, smelling of that familiar sage and sea salt that has grown to warm you from the inside out. He lets out a long breath, the briny tracks on his face brushing against your own. He melts against you as you deepen your kiss, imparting every facet of your compassion for his worries, his fears, his doubts. You know too well the weight of a burden owed to a loved one, the shadows of those who had shown you kindness haunting your steps, and you raise onto the balls of your feet to press your brow against his own.

The small, soft moan he lets out when you part is more a feeling than a sound, and you brush your nose against his own. “I have loved you across more time and space than I had imagined existed,” you whisper, leaning into his chest when he draws his arms around your waist, and you press your cheek against the slope of his collar, resting your staff against the firm muscle of his back. “And I will love you longer and farther, whether we’re together or apart.”

You can feel him when he presses his face into your hair, breathing in the woodsy herbs and the warm spices tangled in its messy plait. He holds you until the trembling in his arms, the silent shaking in his chest quells, and it’s only when Venka tugs on his pant leg that you part. You can see the dim gleam of another mythosaur hanging from his neck, and you smile when Din picks him up in one arm, his helmet hanging from his other hand, and you follow them with the baby toddling beside you, still holding the staff’s end. 

Beskar, you find, is hard on your skin, and you think you may need to cover the middle with a wrapping to protect your palms. You flick your wrist, a shiver of excitement tingling down your back when it obeys your whim and seals itself up in its smaller formation. You tilt your head curiously, kneeling down at the table to eat and resting it beside you. 

Din shepherds the children into bed. Your bed, you notice.

“Why can it do this?” you ask curiously, sniffling as you begin to eat some of the spiced meat and glazed greens. They’re almost sweet, contrasting with the heat of the seasoning delightfully on your tongue. Din places his helmet beside the bed where you can make out the shapeless lump of the rest of his armor, and he returns to fold one leg beneath him, drawing his knee up to his chest as he sits. He looks almost boyish in posture without the foreboding armor, a quiet and lovely man with dark eyes and a shy smile. 

“I wanted it to be adaptable to you,” he says after a moment, tugging mindlessly at the hem of his pants. You watch his shape as you eat, listening intently. “Should you not want to use it, but have it with you...she assured me you would be able to fasten it to a sash or belt.” 

You could see the ingenuity the Armorer took, then, with her creation. Certainly there are times you would rather not have a walking aid, even more places with people you would not wish it to be known that you are disabled. It is not always safe to declare what others perceive as a weakness, what could make you a target. You rest the slim beskar staff across your lap, the weight comforting and already becoming familiar, like an extension of your body. You prompt, “And the animal?”

His head perks up a bit, dark eyes blinking. “A mudhorn.”

“Your signet?” you gasp, looking down at the shape and tracing it with your fingers reverently.

“Ours,” Din corrects, and when you look up again, he’s studying his sock with rapt attention, a high flush in his cheeks, and you bite your lip on a smile.

“I do like it,” you say, once you have finally finished eating a little of each food. There is plenty to save, but before cleaning, you reach over and rest your fingers on his knee, squeezing tightly until the darks of his eyes meet your own. You like that you can see him this way, and that he can find your gaze even if you can’t always find his. “I love it, more...more than you could ever know.”

Silently, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your palm, resting your fingers against his face with a long, world-weary sigh. 

The two of you work in tandem to straighten the quarters before you strip yourself of the day’s clothing, pulling on your shift that’s warm enough to ward the chill of the tunnels off. You touch your hair with amused bafflement, feeling out each tangle and the pieces of herbs the children had decorated you with. When Din asks about it, you tell him of visiting the foundlings, of spending the afternoon with Paz Vizla, and he listens quietly. What you can make out of his face is a serene mask of neutrality while you brush your hair out until the seeds and twigs fall to the floor, and your locks shine smooth. 

He climbs into the bed after you, allowing you to shift so the children are between your body and the wall. The baby sleepily curls up against your neck, his petal ears twitching as Din blows out the candles. When he settles down behind you, wrapping a strong arm over your waist to lay his hand upon Venka’s shoulder, you feel him whisper against the back of your neck.

“Did Vizla braid your hair, too?”

It takes everything in you not to burst out laughing at the petulant jealousy lacing his voice, but you snort into your pillow, biting your lip. “No,” you whisper, grinning over at him in the dark. “He didn’t.”

Din shifts, tucking his knees behind yours and grumbling against your neck. “Good.”

You rest your cheek against your pillow once again, listening to the children’s quiet breathing, their soft snores heartening you, even if the knowledge of leaving them hangs heavy on your mind. You close your eyes, pressing your lips to the soft baby fine hair that reminds you of the fuzz on a peach, breathing deeply.

“What is it?” Din whispers, his voice slowing, lowering with exhaustion. 

“I’m going to miss them,” you confess, the knot in your throat finally unraveling. It hurts to swallow, pains you to choke down the grief simmering just below your chest. Din draws his hand up to pet your hair from your face, catching a few of the tears that begin to stain the pillow, and his knuckles brush your cheek to turn your face backward toward his own.

His eyes are like two stars in the dark, somehow shining against the nature of shadow, and he presses a sweet kiss to your forehead. “So will I.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando’a Translations:
> 
> Dadita - A code used by Mandalorians, like Morse.
> 
> Buir’ika - Little Mother.
> 
> Ver'gebuir - Bodyguard lit: hired guardian. Can also be used for the father of children.
> 
> Vod’ika - Little Sister.
> 
> K'oyacyi, Djarin’aliit. - “Come back safely, Djarin family.” K’oyacyi can also mean cheers; “hang in there”, lit: “Stay alive.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> Mesh'la - Beautiful
> 
> Osi’kyr! - A strong exclamation of surprise or dismay
> 
> Vi've olaror chaaj'yc. Liser vi spirba? - "We've come far. Can we pass?"
> 
> Olarom, verde - "Welcome, soldiers."
> 
> Val haa'taylir echoy’la - "They look lost." 
> 
> K'uur - "Hush."
> 
> Cyare - Beloved


End file.
